Wild Hearts
by Aerus
Summary: "For all that she knew of the world had until this day made her believe that there was no such thing as love at first sight."
1. Chapter 1

**Title: **Wild Hearts

**Genre: **Romance

**Rating:** M

**Pairing: **Éomer/Lothíriel

**Disclaimer: **The Lord of The Rings and everything concerning it belongs to J. R. R. Tolkien. I own nothing and make no financial profit by writing this.

**Summary: **For all that she knew of the world had until this day made her believe that there was no such thing as love at first sight.

**Author's Note:** I don't know what this is. I'm sick and this just came to me, and I had to write it because it's not like I can do anything else in the bed. I had to upload it as well. I'm sure this is at least partly because of the medication

This is not that thing I've talked about in A/Ns of _House of Sun. _No, that's something far larger and more epic. This is just another manifestation of my thing for the "Éomer and Lothíriel meet before the war" angle. I don't think this will be long, though - I'd say there's going to be five chapters at tops (this time I'm generous, considering how it usually gets out of my hand when I promise just couple chapters). I suppose this is something that could go far longer and larger if I just worked on it, but I need to get _House of Sun _done and I really really want to start working on that other thing too.

I'm the strange breed that is both for the reason and the romance at the same time. Romance has to be well written for me to like it - but when it _is _well written I ship it like FedEx. This is not to say I consider myself the Great Master of Romance. It just means that while I might not support ideas like love at first sight in real world, I love to see them well executed in fanfiction. This is such an attempt. Hopefully it will make you believe in love at first sight, if only until the end of the chapter.

* * *

But as she looked on him, doom fell upon her, and she loved him; yet she slipped from his arms and vanished from his sight even as the day was breaking.

- _Of Beren and Lúthien._

* * *

**Chapter 1**

_My lord Denethor - _

_You need not remind me of the old friendship between our kingdoms, and gladly do I answer your call for help. The safety of the realm of Gondor is a matter that is close to my heart, as it has ben a concern for all the Kings of Rohan since the time of Eorl the Young._

_However, I must regretfully inform I can't quite send you a force as large as you were hoping for. The situation has not been too good in my own kingdom as of late, and my riders are direly needed to protect the lands of the Rohirrim. As such I send half the amount of men you asked for. _

_This should not be problem, I hope. For I have sent you one of my most valiant captains – that is Lord Éomer my nephew, for whom I have great expectations and intend to raise a Marshal of the Mark very soon. This I hope will convince you of his skill of leading men. Young man he is, but I assure you can trust him to give you the best aid imaginable, and under his leadership the men I have sent will be as efficient as if I there was twice the amount of riders. _

_I wish the best luck for the campaign, and may the children of Men stand ever brave and valiant against the shadow._

_With best regards,_

_Théoden King of Rohan_

* * *

_April 3016, Minas Tirith_

Denethor, the Steward of Gondor, spent a long time reading and re-reading the letter sent to him by King Théoden. Troubled he felt as he doubted half the men he had asked could achieve what he had in mind. A campaign in Ithilien did require more riders, he deemed... but then, the Rohirrim took much pride in their cavalry and their skills in riding – and for a good reason, it was said. Finer horsemen were not to be found anywhere else in Middle-earth. In their eyes half of the force he had hoped for was probably more than enough.

At last he looked up from the letter and to the man standing before him. Upon his arrival from west this rider had introduced himself as Lord Éomer, the captain Théoden had written about. He was very tall, perhaps taller even than Boromir himself. Though the layers of heavy armour probably contorted the proportions somewhat, he was obviously of broad build, like those blond giants of the North usually were. And golden-haired he was, with that wild mane falling on his shoulders.

Théoden had written his nephew was young but even Denethor, a man of keen sight, had some difficulty remembering that when studying the face of this rider: stern of look and answering his gaze with unfaltering steadiness. Indeed, the expression in the Rohir's eyes was sharp and discerning and he never showed any sign of being uncomfortable under Denethor's close scrutiny. Standing with his feet apart in a manner of a swordsman, this rider had an air of authority, of a man who knew how to command and who fawned for no one.

"Your uncle the King writes he could only send half the men I was hoping for", Denethor said at last when the silence had started to grow awkward. His words did not seem to affect the Rohir too much.

"I understand your concern, my lord, but I assure you the force that rides with me is large enough for what you have planned. These are some of the best men from the éored of Marshal Ánfeald of Aldburg", answered the young horse-lord.

Denethor regarded the man on the front of him thoughtfully. How old was this rider anyway? For all his spirit and nature he couldn't be as old as Boromir. And yet he was the captain of the party Théoden had sent.

"I hope you don't mind me asking how long have you served under the King?" he inquired, deciding it was probably not the best to directly ask for the man's age.

"Nine years. Ever since I turned sixteen. Before that, I had been training for many years already", said the rider. He was only 25 years old! No man of Gondor could ever dream of having such a responsible position so young. But then, as he looked at the Rohir again, he thought of his own sons at that age. This Lord Éomer did not seem at all like Boromir and Faramir in their twenties; the sharp look in the dark eyes and the beard he sported did give him an appearance of an older man.

"And you're captain already?" Denethor asked.

"Aye, I have been given that honour", said the young man.

The Steward made a non-committal sound and leaned back in his chair. Either Théoden had very poor judgement for elevating young reckless men, or this rider was precisely as efficient as his King thought him. The way this Rohirric captain stood and regarded him did at least suggest the latter. Long experience had taught Denethor that men who could keep their nerves on the front of him were not usually the useless kind.

"Still, I would have imagined the King should take this matter more seriously. After all, Gondor is the only thing that stands between Rohan and east", Denethor pointed out then. If this somehow irked the rider it didn't show; his expression remained calm and steadfast.

"Lord, Théoden takes the matter with all solemnity imaginable. But there are many dangers threatening our lands and our freedom these days, and not all of those dangers come from east. The Mark stands guard to Gondor just as well, for no one ever said the danger can't one time come from west. If guard is not kept in Rohan and Sons of Eorl won't defend their own realm as well, no rider will ever be able to come to the aid of Gondor", he answered.

Denethor frowned to himself and fell silent for a moment. Proud were the Men of the North and headstrong, and they had never envied the legacy of the sea that was in the blood of old Westernesse. They were content in their own ways and memories. But to him they seemed wild and unreliable, though he did not say that out loud. Insulting Théoden's own kin would not ensure the help of these ferocious children of the north.

"Fine. I do hope your uncle has made the right call in this, and the quest will not end in disaster", said the Steward, sitting straighter in his chair. He regarded the young rider with renewed alertness, "Captain, I'd have you introduce yourself to my sons Boromir and Faramir, who will lead the campaign. Boromir will explain you the details. But I would like to emphasis that this a quest of great importance, and it depends on the secrecy."

"Of course, my lord. My men are quite capable of stealth when needed. You can trust in the strength of Eorlingas", said the Rohir calmly.

Soon after, he exited to make the acquaintance Boromir and Faramir. As for Denethor himself, he spent a long while wondering what would come out of this campaign... and if the golden-haired horse-lord could be trusted to carry out his part as well as Théoden's words would imply.

* * *

Sunset was at hand when Éomer, nephew to Théoden King and Captain of Marshal Ánfeald of Aldburg, made his way to the royal stables of the Citadel. Entire day had gone by in the negotiations between him and the two sons of the Steward: Boromir and Faramir had outlined their ideas for purging the woods of Ithilien. Worrisome tidings of increased orc activity in that area had come to the ears of two Gondorian captains, and they were suspecting the orcs were attempting to establish some outpost there, to make easier their assaults to west and south. Such thing could not be tolerated, and a swift and strong strike was in order.

They were set to leave the next evening and make use of the cover of the night. Lord Boromir would have had them depart already today but Éomer had insisted his men and the horses get a proper night's rest after the long journey from the Mark. After being tasked with something so important he wasn't going to compromise the well-being of his riders and their steeds.

As he entered the stables with the intention of seeing all was well with his own horse, he thought of the Steward and his sons. Of Denethor he wasn't sure what he thought, but his sons were not quite as distant or critical as the great lord himself. The Steward had hid it well but Éomer had not missed a flash of doubt in the man's sharp grey eyes. Well, he had expected something of the sort, as Gondorians at times were more or less prejudiced towards the Rohirrim, even despite the alliance between the two realms.

But he'd do his duty, and aid the Steward's sons the best he could... and then hopefully he'd be able to go home and return to the usual routine, in which he was content. Grand as this great city was, he wasn't so sure he liked it too well.

He was in the middle of checking his stallion's feet when he first saw her. She was leading a chestnut gelding by a reins, looking wind-blown from a ride. Locks of dark hair had escaped from her long and thick braid that reached all the way down to the small of her back. Slender she was, and tall as well, perhaps of equal height as Éowyn. But he reckoned she couldn't be too old, for in her grey eyes – a bright clear shade which could only mean she was a daughter of the Men of West – there was a wild fire of youth. Her features, however, were delicate and even sophisticated, though it seemed to him there was also something sad.

The gelding was a fine animal, in southern standards at least. And evidently the horse was dearly loved or at least appreciated as his coat was well cared and he had a hale look about him. But what caught Éomer's attention was that she had been using a proper saddle, not one of those silly side-saddles Gondorian women reportedly used. Indeed, the woman was dressed in split skirt and leggings meant for riding astride – signs of a real horsewoman, if he was any judge.

"That your horse?" he asked bluntly. Immediately Éomer wished to kick himself as she could very well be a noblewoman of high birth, and just asking questions like that was not appropriate.

But she gave him a faint smile and there was no offence on her face.

"I wish. He belongs to my cousin, but I get to ride him sometimes as I don't have a horse of my own", she answered conversationally, like they had known each other for a long time. She lead the animal into the stall opposite Firefoot's, and she glanced at Éomer's horse with something that resembled longing. "Not much of a competition to your own."

"Well, I _am _a horse-lord", he said, which pulled another smile out of her. Éomer noted she was rather pretty when she smiled, though he wasn't sure it was something she often did.

She began to unbuckle the saddle then, showing the care and skill that only came with routine. _A proper horsewoman indeed. _

"Aren't there stable hands who could do that for you?" he asked. Picking up a brush he began to care for Firefoot's coat... that wasn't out of need, though, but he didn't want to look idle.

"Of course. But part of my deal with my cousin is that I also care for the horse after the ride. I don't mind – it's easy work anyway. And any time I spend here in the stables is time I don't have to spend in my father's house pretending like I fit there", she said softly, not turning to look at him.

"Your father is a nobleman", he realised, "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to-"

"It's all right. Believe it or not, I find it refreshing that someone is being so straight-forward with me. These Gondorian courts can be so tense sometimes", she said quickly before he could finish his sentence.

"I beg your pardon, but you do not really seem like they say Gondorian noblewomen are", Éomer commented, watching her from the corner of his eye. She let out a small laugh.

"Oh, I'm sure it's just the same way other way around, and things I've heard of you Rohirrim aren't always quite true", she said. Realising the truth of that statement, and that Eorlingas had their own prejudices about the southerners too, he felt kind of abashed. He hadn't ever really thought of it from this point of view.

"It's quite all right" she continued, evidently noticing his bafflement. "Much of what you think of us isn't probably so far from the truth. My brothers tell me I'm the odd bird of the flock."

"Hmm. Perhaps then more birds should be like you", he said, again before really thinking. He and his big mouth! This was precisely the sort of thing Éowyn was always nattering about.

The young woman had stopped working. She rested her hands on the saddle and stared ahead as if there was some great mystery hidden there. He worried he had offended her but then she spoke again.

"Are all Rohirrim like you? So blunt, I mean?" she asked. It was now his turn to chuckle.

"We are an outspoken people, aye. But if you ask my sister she would probably say I take it to another level entirely", he said, trying for a light tone. It seemed to ease her mood and she cast a smile at him. He answered that, and continued, "I'm sorry. I'm not really cut for the Gondorian etiquette."

"It's fine. Like I said, I don't mind you being straight-forward with me", she consoled him. Then she looked curious, "If I may ask, what brings you to Minas Tirith? I don't remember when was the last time I saw any Rohirrim here."

"Steward Denethor asked for some Rohirric riders to aid on a campaign to Ithilien. I came here with some men of my éored at the command of Théoden King", he answered.

"Oh", she let out softly. Suddenly, it seemed to him her face had become sad.

"Is something wrong?" he asked.

"It's nothing", she answered quickly. She had continued with the task of caring for the gelding and was now starting to brush the animal's coat. But she glanced at him again, "I suppose it means you're not going to stay in the city for long?"

"No. We'll leave tomorrow. I do not know yet how long it will take", he answered. Somehow that made him feel regretful – something he had never really felt before at the prospect of war-waging.

"Of course. It must be important", she said, concentrating her eyes on the task at hand.

"Aye", he agreed quietly. Needing to distract them both, he then asked: "Do you live in the city, then? You spoke of your father's house."

"I... I do come to stay in Minas Tirith at times", she said softly. "All nobility does, though these days those who have other options prefer not to. They don't like the shadow."

That much was understandable. A part of why Éomer didn't like like this place was that ever-present, looming presence in the east. Though it didn't always seem like a shadow per say, it certainly was there and never went away... always watching and somehow even robbing the sun of its warmth at times.

"Does it scare you?" he asked.

"Sometimes. But it's either that or living with my aunt and sister-in-law. We don't often get along so well, and I know father is lonely here in the city – he's needed here so much these days. So I come to keep him company sometimes", she answered. Then she let out a helpless little laugh that was not very merry, "I don't know why I'm babbling like this. Surely you don't want to hear me complaining in such a way. It's not like a really know much of danger and darkness..."

"It's quite fine. It doesn't bother me", he told her, hoping she might see that he truly meant it. Had any woman, even in the Mark, ever opened her heart for him with such honesty and so trustfully? And the more she spoke the more he wanted to hear, and he had long since forgotten about brushing Firefoot... instead, he stood there watching her, this young woman who had such lonely eyes.

Now a small smile came to her face and she stopped to answer his gaze.

"You speak Westron so well, half the time I forget I'm talking to a man of Rohan. Some people always insist you don't speak the Common Speech at all", she said then.

"Some of us don't. Those who refuse to learn say Common Speech is such an ugly language. But my parents taught me since I was very young, and so did my uncle. Good thing that they did, as it would not be too easy to co-operate with Gondorians if we didn't have any shared tongue", he answered. The young woman frowned.

"Your uncle? Did... did something happen to your parents?" she asked.

"They died many years ago", he answered quietly. It wasn't something he spoke of eagerly.

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have asked", she quickly said and looked worried when she glanced at him.

"Don't worry about it. Like I said, it was many years ago", he said, turning his eyes towards the stable doors.

For a while she brushed her cousin's horse in quiet, wearing a slightly troubled expression on her face. At the sight of it his heart softened.

"Really, don't be uneasy. This is how life is. Pain and loss are part of it", Éomer told her gently. She gave him a sad little smile.

"Yes. It appears you're quite right about that", she agreed. Now her smile lost some of its melancholy, "Is that just your opinion or do Rohirrim think like that in general?"

"Sadly, I don't know every Eorling in the Mark", he said, which even made her laugh softly, "but I suppose that's something you would hear from others as well if you asked. Not perhaps in same words, but the idea would be the same. Life is... well, we take it as it comes."

The woman nodded thoughtfully. When she looked at him again she looked to be on a lighter mood.

"It's starting to think I've missed much, this being only the first time I talk with someone from Rohan. I feel like there's much I could learn from you", she said.

"From a barbarian people of north?" he asked without a hint of solemnity. The young woman snickered at his words and he didn't know why but it made him feel happy.

"As long as you bathe first", she said. But suddenly a troubled look took the place of good cheer that had appeared on her face and she looked away from him. She sighed then, "I suppose I should get going. I've been out too long – my father is probably worried about me already."

"Of course", Éomer answered. Unexpected feeling of disappointment came to him: he didn't want see her go... and, if he had to, he'd rather part with a promise of seeing her again.

So, as she turned to leave, he moved quickly to touch her arm. Sharply she turned to look at him.

"Could you perhaps tell me your name before you go?" he asked.

Again that sad expression was there, and he desperately wanted to see it gone.

"If you first promise me something", she said, her voice quiet.

"Of course. Anything", he said right away. Éomer had a feeling he wouldn't really have been able to deny her anything. It was not a feeling he was used to, as women very rarely got to him like she did.

"Promise me you'll return alive from your campaign. Then perhaps we will exchange names", she answered.

Gently, he picked up her hand and gave a kiss to her knuckles. Small hand she had, but he felt strength in her fingers... an urge to cover that hand with his came to him even though he knew he should let her go.

"Aye. I will come back", he promised.

_I'd meet you again, fair lady... and maybe see a smile on your face as well. _

* * *

Lothíriel, Princess of Dol Amroth, returned to the house of her father resembling a sleepwalker. She passed by the guards at the gate and servants along the way with little notice, and if it sparked their attention that the young mistress was even more faraway than usual, Lothíriel herself did not know.

But as she wandered inside, she shook herself and forcibly returned to the reality: she should perhaps see her father before getting changed into a fresh gown.

She found him in his study, going through some papers or at least that was what it looked like. For all his greatness, Imrahil of Dol Amroth was kind of clueless when it came to keeping order in his personal study. She'd probably have to sweep through the place on the morrow.

When Lothíriel entered, he looked up from his work and smiled.

"There you are, daughter! I was already starting to think if I should send guards to look for you", he said and got up. When he pulled her in his arms and hugged her, she felt warm.

"I didn't mean to stay out so long. I suppose I just forgot myself", she answered and returned his smile. It had taken some time to persuade him to let her go riding all alone without guards, though he knew she could take care of herself. Growing up with three brothers usually made sure that one was capable of handling oneself. And as she had sworn she'd never ride too far from the gates of the city, Father had eventually given in.

"Always walking with you head in clouds, you are", he said fondly. Then his expression became quizzical, "Say, would you like to go to the Citadel tonight? Your uncle is having supper with some important guest from Rohan, and said we'd be welcome to join if we want."

A guest from Rohan? Instantly she thought of the man she had met in the stables... a strange little shiver ran down her spine as she thought of how he had watched her, those dark eyes studying her like he could see into her soul. It had felt good talking to him, though she certainly had babbled much more than she should have. But he had been so honest and genuine and friendly and she had spilled out her thoughts before she could even think of what she had been saying.

Yet the idea of him also brought her wave of sadness, which was in good part because he might not return even if he had promised... and dining with some comrade in arms of his didn't seem too appealing.

"I'd like to stay home tonight", she said at last. Really, a quiet supper with father and then going to bed early seemed like the best option.

"All right. I'll send him a word we won't come", said Father and kissed her forehead. "You do seem a bit pale and tired. Is something wrong, my dear?"

"Oh, I'm fine. I just stayed up too late last night reading", she answered with a sheepish smile. "You know how it is, having the libraries of Minas Tirith so close."

"Indeed I do", Father said and let out a weak little laugh. "Your mother was just the same – always with her nose in a book when we visited the city together..."

Lothíriel smiled weakly at the mention of her late mother and then made her way out to get changed into something else than her riding attire.

Some time later, when they were seated at the table and enjoying the meal, the princess finally asked a question she had been wanting to ask her father since coming back from the stables.

"Father, what do you think of the Rohirrim?" she asked.

"What of them?" he asked, faintly lifting his eyebrows.

"I just heard some were in the city. I saw some really beautiful horses in the stables", Lothíriel answered. She didn't usually make it her habit to lie or tell half-truths, but somehow mentioning the dark-eyed man didn't seem like something she should do. No, that conversation ought to remain sealed in her heart as a rare moment of honesty and companionship.

"Oh, yes. Your uncle sent word for their king and asked for their help. A party of riders did indeed arrive today", Father said.

"But what do you think of them yourself?" she asked, studying his face closely.

"Well, I don't really know how to answer that. I don't exactly know any Rohirrim. They're said to be fearless warriors and horsemen of unmatched skill, but wild and wilful and brash", he answered.

Wild? Wilful? Brash? The two first perhaps could be true, though she wasn't so sure about the man she had met. And even less he had seemed brash. Blunt, yes, but not brash. No, he had been friendly and even gentle. Anyway, Lothíriel didn't know if _wild _and _wilful _were bad things per say.

"I've heard that some Rohirric women even participate in battles sometimes. Shieldmaidens, they call them. It sounds quite fantastic, but who am I to deny it? But be it as may, Rohirrim are our friends and we should respect them, even if their ways don't always make sense to us", Father continued then. Lothíriel smiled.

"Perhaps I should become a Shieldmaiden too. Escape north and find myself some tall blond rider", she said lightly, but to herself the joke instantly lost its edge: she recalled dark eyes watching her and the thick golden hair... how might that hair feel like, if one touched it?

Father laughed, but when he spoke he did seem serious.

"Daughter, a man of Rohan would be the last one I'd want to give your hand in marriage", he told her.

"Why so?" Lothíriel asked; she she kept her voice steady and her face blank, and Father noticed nothing. But inside there was an ache in her heart.

"I wouldn't want you to go so far away from us. And I do not feel I know enough of their life and ways to send my daughter to such an uncertain life. Would they even know how to treat you, who are a Princess of highest birth in the realm? Or more importantly, would _he _know how to treat you?" Imrahil said and she could tell he was perfectly serious.

_I think he would. The way he watched me... _

But the truth was more cruel than that: _he's but a stranger. _

"Really, if a man of Rohan wanted to wed my daughter, he would have to be nothing less than the King himself", Father concluded his line of thought.

Lothíriel cast down her eyes and considered the dish before her. Delicious as it was, like one could expect of the kitchens of Prince of Dol Amroth, she found she had no appetite. Why did it feel like she had just lost something invaluable?

"Daughter? Is something wrong?" asked her father; he had seen how she looked like.

But Lothíriel had mastered masks and hiding her thoughts long ago, and she smiled up at him.

"I'm fine. I was just thinking", she said and forced down another spoonful of food that tasted like ash in her mouth.

Something was clearly wrong with her... for all that she knew of the world had until this day made her believe that there was no such thing as love at first sight.

* * *

Rohirrim always sang. They sang at life and they sang at death. In celebration they lifted their voices together, and in the every day routine they hummed the tunes and recited verses. They sang when they left for war or came home or went through simple household chores. It was said that an ordinary man of the Mark had a voice fit for a court minstrel, and even the farmer in the smallest household would remember countless songs about the heroes and heroines if old; their songs had laughter and love and tears and grief and hope. Indeed, it was in their music and in their songs the past of Eorlingas was recorded rather than in any book.

That was, Éomer mused, the difference between his people and the Gondorians. Songs were the spirit of the Mark, and whenever his éored left Aldburg it would be singing songs. But now as the men of Gondor and the riders lead by him left Minas Tirith there was no song in the air. Instead something of a hush had fallen and the faces of men were grave and reserved. Here singing voices were not welcomed.

His men had sensed this too, and quiet they rode after him when the war party began for the road on dying day of April. It was peculiar, considering what a noisy lot these men usually were.

Quietly they made their way from the Citadel, down towards the first level of the city. Lord Boromir travelled at the front of the party, and they had called Éomer to join them as well. However, he had declined the invitation and chosen to stay with his own men at the rear. Lord Faramir would join them on the other side of the river, as he would be leading his Rangers. Perhaps some other man might have felt his honour diminished for riding behind, but Éomer did not feel so. He was, after all, a stranger in a strange land, and his business here was to kill orcs and not to demand himself glory.

But as they passed downwards through the city he saw her, standing at the side of the road where people were gathered to watch them go. She was pale and her eyes were sad, more so than last night, and had the situation been any other he'd have stopped to ask if she was well... but it would have to wait for when he returned.

Éomer tipped his head towards her as a greeting and gave her a smile he hoped she might answer... yet instead he saw there something anguished. But then Firefoot was there at her side, and she reached up her hand towards him. He answered that gesture almost as though out of instinct, and briefly her fingers curled about his... but it was a fleeting touch, and her hand passed from his before he was ready to let go.

_- but then, he didn't know if he ever would have been ready -_

And she fell behind, for Firefoot pushed forward ignorant of his master's desires... one more glance he spared her, and her clear grey eyes remained fixed on him.

Tearing away his gaze took some effort, but Éomer looked ahead and promised to himself he'd see this sad-eyed young woman again.

* * *

**A/N: **Inspiration for the chapter: Natasha Bedingfield – Wild Horses


	2. Chapter 2

_In his heart he called her Tinúviel, that signifies Nightingale, daughter of twilight, in the Grey-elven tongue, for he knew no other name for her. _

- Of Beren and Lúthien

* * *

**Chapter 2**

The biography of King Hyarmendacil II lay forgotten beside her on the window board, where Lothíriel sat gazing outside. It was a grey day in the realm of Gondor and rain had poured down since morning. She had sat down to read one of her favourite books but eventually her mind had wandered, travelling green paths under the sun in west. Idly she thought of having to visit the royal libraries and find out if there was anything on Rohan there. Ever since she had met _him _in the stables her thoughts were constantly drawn towards the strange country in north.

He had been away for week and a half now, along with her cousins Faramir and Boromir. No word had come from Ithilien as far as her father knew; Boromir was hoping to exercise secrecy as much as it was possible.

She told herself it was silly to worry. Remembering that first sight she had seen of _him_ in the stables, and then how he had looked like when he rode, she had known he was not a man to be easily killed. Lothíriel's own brothers had been raised to have knowledge of bearing arms... but she wondered if even them, renowned swordsmen and fighters, would have anything on the tall golden-haired Rohir. Heavily armoured and riding his large warhorse with the easy grace of long experience, the man had looked positively dangerous.

The princess sighed and leaned her forehead against cold glass. He may very well be the mightiest warrior alive but she knew when her father was talking business. _No man of Rohan could have her hand in marriage._ And anyway, all of this was foolish. She didn't know him, and he had just been too polite to not disrupt her, or maybe he had thought it funny how she had poured out her heart to him... be it as may, she had made a fool of herself and he had probably laughed himself silly afterwards. What did men of war care about stupid little princesses?

But that thought brought tears in her eyes and her hands became fists. Was it so wrong then, if only for once she felt like someone understood and didn't think her thoughts foolish? If once someone who wasn't her father didn't treat her like a princess or act like she was a mockery of one?

Lothíriel wiped her eyes and told herself to toughen up. She was being ridiculous and childish, letting herself get so upset over a man she wouldn't probably see again after he had returned to his own land. Who knew what kind of life he even had there? Maybe he was married and had a legion of children already.

Her thoughts were then interrupted as Father strode into the parlour where she had sat reading. He was looking like he was on his way out – she assumed he had business with Uncle up in the Citadel.

"There you are, daughter. I was just heading out, but thought you maybe want to hear Elphir and Cuileth are on their way. They sent word from Harlond and should arrive soon", Father said as he leaned down to kiss her brow.

"Oh", she answered, feeling her heart sink. Really, it had apparently been too much to hope she might be able to enjoy the quiet and peace in Minas Tirith.

Father knew of her strained relationship with Cuileth of course. He sighed and rested a hand on Lothíriel's shoulder.

"I'm sure it'll be all right. You just have to be patient with your sister-in-law", he tried. She gave him a sharp look.

"I've been patient with her since the day she married Elphir, Father, and I've yet to see that change anything", she said glumly.

Knowing this was an argument he couldn't really win, Father sighed and patted her shoulder.

"Your uncle had some business with me. I'll have to go up to the Citadel, but I'll try to be back for the supper", he said softly.

How wonderful! At least when Father was around Cuileth wasn't as bad as she usually were, but if he'd be away until evening...

"I'll see you then. Give Uncle my regards", Lothíriel said resignedly. Father didn't look too happy but he went along, and she was left alone in the parlour, thinking about her sister-in-law.

She and Elphir got along moderately well for the slightly distant relationship it was; he was that much older than her and usually concerned with the running matters anyway. In other words, the two of them didn't really have that much in common. It was Cuileth who was more of a problem.

She and Elphir had married some years ago and evidently they had a very good and happy marriage. With a wife as dedicated as Cuileth around the future Prince of Dol Amroth could not want for nothing. She was single-minded and ran the palace with the precision and efficacy of a general. Cuileth was, in a word, _a princess. _But she was also prone to ordering people about and seeing little but her own point of view... something Lothíriel would have thought would result in many, many disagreements with her Aunt Ivriniel, who possessed similar attitude towards life. However, the two women got along extraordinarily well, as their ideas about most things were rather similar. Sometimes Lothíriel even suspected the two shared some telepathic connection. And as their disapproval was never directed at each other, the youngest of Imrahil's children was the usual target.

Lothíriel knew they meant well in their endless attempts to turn her more princess-like, but life-long education had not made her a better dancer or helped her learn the intricacies of etiquette or countless other little things like that. But it was more than just being the perfect princess: it was also how Cuileth considered it her right to order her husband's sister, and how both she and Aunt Ivriniel still treated her like a child. Lothíriel didn't think she couldn't really have been more different from her sister-in-law and aunt, and inevitably it caused frustrations that eventually led into arguments, and then she'd take refuge in Minas Tirith with her father.

Grimacing to herself, Lothíriel decided that she didn't really care if it was considered rude of her to be away when her brother and sister-in-law arrived. She'd probably have plenty of time to deal with them if they were to stay in Minas Tirith for a while.

Her mind set, the young princess made her way out, thinking perhaps she'd hole up in the library until the evening.

* * *

The night was quiet in the woods of Ithilien. No camp fires were allowed here, and even the horses appeared to understand that making unnecessary noise would not have been wise. Though the land was fair there was also a shadow resting over it, and no wonder; only the mountains stood between these woods and the Black Land. The Morgul Vale, a place of terror and nightmare, was close as well.

It felt odd to Éomer to exercise such secrecy and caution after the great victory they had achieved over a force of orcs, even if he fully understood the necessity. They were on the road back to Minas Tirith, and he had observed that ever since crossing Anduin Gondorians had been on the edge. They loved not this eastern side of the river and feeling the heaviness in the air he did not blame them for it. Still, it was sad to see this land so deserted, as it was fair and fertile.

Finding the orcish outpost had demanded all the sneakiness and discretion of Lord Faramir's Rangers, but eventually the place of their dwelling was found. The two Captains had lured out the enemy, and thinking it would be an easy win against the smaller force orcs had succumbed into a battle. But as soon as the Gondorians had them engaged Éomer had lead his riders in, effectively trampling down the vanguard left behind. After that it was only a matter of finishing up the enemy and destroying their camp. No orc would return to Mordor report this defeat.

Victorious as the battle had been he was happy to leave behind these lands. And he had looked forward to returning for more than just one reason. He had a promise to keep, though he knew not what end it would be... when they had ridden from Mundburg, Éothain his rider had urged his horse forward so that the two men could ride side by side, and the man had asked the inevitable question: "Who was that woman who reached for you?"

"A stranger. An odd bird. _Nihtegale", _had Éomer answered quietly, and his friend had known not to ask more.

His thoughts were still on her when he saw the shadowy shape of Lord Faramir approaching. Quietly Éomer made space beside himself under the tree, where he had been sitting, and the other man sat down next to him.

"Lord Faramir", greeted the young Rohir. During this campaign he had observed that of the Steward's two sons Faramir was more quiet and prudent. He didn't speak much but when he did, it was reason. Boromir was the louder one, the famed warrior, and more reckless. In some ways the older brother did remind Éomer of himself, but he found he got along better with Faramir.

"My lord of Rohan", answered the Ranger with a nod of his head. "I didn't have the chance to thank you for your help. It was quite crucial, I deem; I do not think we could have destroyed those orcs without you and your men."

"Do not mention it. Gondor is friend to Rohan, after all. What friendship would it be, if we did not answer your call?" Éomer said nonchalantly.

"One is glad to hear you have not forgotten Eorl's Oath", Faramir said quietly, watching the shadowy woods.

"We have long memory, my lord, and we don't forget the favour shown to us", answered the young Rohir. The other man nodded quietly.

After a moment of silence, he spoke again, "I'd hear of yourself, my lord. I understand you're kin to King Théoden?"

"Aye. He is my uncle", Éomer answered, wrapping his cloak tighter about himself. A thought of Théoden was fond, considering all that the man had done for him and his sister... but there was concern too, for lately it didn't seem to him like his uncle was surrounded by faithful men. One Gríma, a man whom some called Wormtongue behind his back, did come into mind at least.

"Have you other family?" asked Faramir conversationally. It curiously reminded Éomer of something he ought to remember.

"Aside from my sister Éowyn, the King and his son the Prince are the only family I have left", he sighed.

"You don't have wife or children?"

"No. Until now it has seemed way too early, and I do not wish to wed just any woman", he answered reluctantly. This was not really something he felt comfortable talking about, and so he decided to turn the conversation away from himself. He asked, "What of yourself, then?"

"My reasoning is about the same as yours. There never seems to be time, and to me sharing my life with someone should mean also love", Faramir said softly. How absurd it was, that the two of them – two men of war – were sitting in this forest and talking about love!

"Speaking of family, I should note that we, my lord, are actually related. Well, it is a very distant relation to be honest, but still. You see, the Queen Morwen who was the mother of of your King Théoden was related to my late mother. I understand they shared an ancestress at some point in history", said the Gondorian then, smiling softly.

"Really? I was not aware of that. And anyway, we have not heard of Morwen's kin ever since her death. My own mother rarely spoke of the Queen, and I have only a very fleeting memory of her... she was beloved by her children and respected by the Rohirrim, but she never assimilated into our society very well. Some held it against her", Éomer answered slowly.

"I see. But they do say that nothing brings people together like love and marriage. Perhaps you should find yourself a wife here, like Thengel your grandfather in his time, my lord", Faramir said, obviously trying for a jesting tone. Éomer let out a low chuckle.

"Are you perhaps already planning to introduce me to some sister or a cousin of yours?" he asked dryly; this man had no need of knowing what had taken place in the stables.

"Sadly I don't have a sister and my little cousin might be intimidated by you, my lord..." said the other man lightly.

But Éomer was not paying attention to the conversation anymore. Instead, he was scanning the dark wood with his eyes, and listening to the silence... really, it was _too silent. _Was it a sign of something foul or just the nature of this threatened land?

"It is too quiet", he murmured from the corner of his mouth to the man beside himself. He glanced at Faramir, who he mused should know better as he frequented these woods.

"You are right. I do not like this hush either", said the captain, and now his voice was without a trace of amusement. He pulled up the hood of his cloak and rose up. "I'd suggest you alarm your men – quietly, if you will."

"Of course", Éomer muttered, considering it a waste of time to stop and point out he wasn't born yesterday. As inaudibly as he could he got up on his feet and made way to Éothain, who was already fast asleep nearby. Being a light sleeper a touch on his shoulder was enough to wake him.

"What is it?" he asked, blinking away the sleep from his eyes.

"Have the men ready, but tell them to be quiet. Something ill is close", Éomer said under his breath. His friend nodded solemnly and got up to see to his captain's command.

Quietly he made way to his horse Firefoot. Rohirric steeds, especially those bred for war, had very keen senses. Sometimes the uneasiness of horses was the first sign that something was wrong, and orc-stench they hated above all else; Rohirrim had learned to pay attention to their horses' reactions long ago already. Couple of times Éomer had even seen a warhorse killing an orc.

"See or hear anything, old man?" he murmured softly into Firefoot's ear, using his own tongue. The stallion seemed calm, though: perhaps it wasn't orcs that were stalking the woods tonight.

After some time Faramir returned, swiftly as a shadow.

"I sent couple of Rangers to scout the woods. They found a band of Southrons not far from here. They're laying in wait and expecting us to fall asleep, the way it looks like... I presume they're after your horses. You know that probably yourself very well, but managing to steal even couple of Rohirric horses would be quite a prize", he quickly explained. Éomer bit back a growl and his hand fell on his sword. Thieving horses was not well-treated in the Mark, and even less he had tolerance for it here.

"How many there are?" he asked.

"Twenty, maybe twenty-five. My brother says we'll let them think we're asleep and wait for them to fall upon us. You should be wary of their arrows – Southrons like to use poisoned darts", answered the Gondorian captain.

"All right. I'll have my men ready", Éomer answered and returned to talk with Éothain, so that the riders would be ready upon the attack.

The Southrons came not long after the men had settled down to wait. Indeed, they made for the horses, but looked like instantly got more than they had bargained for. A part of training a warhorse was to teach the animal to be wary of strangers, and especially of those who tried to mount him unless it was the steed's master. Thus he was not surprised when in the shadows of the evening Éomer saw one horse biting at the face of one Southron man. If he'd live, he'd sport some nasty scars until his dying day.

As they had known to expect an attempt of horse thievery the foes were fast surrounded and defeated. But fiercely and without fear of death they fought, so that until the end only five men of the original twenty-five remained. It looked like their leader had fallen and the survivors refused to talk, and Boromir decided they'd be brought to Minas Tirith for further questioning.

After the battle, silence fell in the woods again, and Éomer settled down in the hopes of some rest. But more than sleep he hoped he'd soon see the green plains of Rohan again.

* * *

"What are you reading?" Cuileth asked on that afternoon when Lothíriel was sat on her usual spot on the window board. The book in her hands was borrowed from the royal libraries of the Citadel: it was an account on Rohirric culture and traditions. It was a copy of the original commission of Steward Hallas heir of Cirion, who had sent his scribe Lemberion to observe the newly established Rohirrim. The scribe had stayed in Rohan for some years to record the ways of the horse-lords, so that the two peoples might learn to understand each other better. Lemberion's writing style was a bit tedious and Lothíriel got the impression that he had not liked his years in Rohan too much, but the book was filled with fascinating details. For one, the Rohirrim had not had a written language before they had come down from North. Eorl's son Brego had first begun the project of defining such a language, and once one of his men called Hygelac had learned what he could of Gondorian writing systems he had started the great project that had taken his whole life. In the end a written language of the Northern tongue had come to be, but for all Hygelac's work it had never spread too far – it was only used in the court to keep annals of the kings and by the Lord of the Mark himself when he sent messages to his Marshals, who were required to at least be able to read if not write. In the end, Rohirrim still preferred their songs over books.

"It's a book about Rohan", Lothíriel answered her sister-in-law, which unsurprisingly made the older woman snort.

"Isn't that waste of time? If you insist on reading you should try some nice story about knights perhaps. That is more fitting for a princess. But if you truly were acting smartly you'd try and do some needlework", she said, that familiar lecturing tone filling her voice. Lothíriel hid her grimace.

"What can stories about knights teach me? Rohirrim are our allies, so it would be wise to know more about them. Who knows when that knowledge might come in handy?" she pointed out. "And you know what I think of needlework. I can do the basics but you can't make me see how embroidery is relevant to my interests."

"I've told you a thousand times every lady should master embroidery. You may one day marry a man who wants you to embroider his shirts", Cuileth answered in the voice of someone long-suffering.

The younger woman merely harrumphed, refraining from commenting that if she ever had the misfortune of marrying a man who thought embroideries in shirts were important, she'd probably run away and become a bandit. Or perhaps just push him into the sea and hope he'd drown.

Glancing at Cuileth, she considered briefly the wife of her brother. She was lovely, much more so than Lothíriel herself. With even and symmetrical features, raven-dark hair and green eyes, she was everything one would imagine when hearing the word _princess. _In addition, Cuileth knew how to dress and how to carry herself and bear the extravagant gowns she loved. In other words, it was for a good reason that she was said to be the most beautiful woman in Dol Amroth.

"Why did you and Elphir come to Minas Tirith? I thought you both were busy in Dol Amroth", she asked then if only to distract the older woman from the topic at hand.

"Oh, Elphir thought perhaps Father Imrahil would appreciate some company here in Minas Tirith, and it has been such a long time we've appeared in court anyway..." Cuileth began, talking away like only she could while Lothíriel frowned to herself and wondered if her company didn't count at all. Her sister-in-law continued, "... and I was also thinking maybe I could be so successful as to persuade you come home too, when we leave."

"You know I prefer to stay here", said the younger woman reluctantly.

"I can't imagine why that is. It's not like you even often mingle with the society", Cuileth pointed out.

Mostly out of duty, Lothíriel did participate some court gatherings at times and went on social calls, but she had never enjoyed those occasions and kept them rare as she could. Father had never disapproved of that; according to him, they were a family of such high standing that their fortune and livelihood did not depend on idle merrymaking among the other nobles. But she thought it was also in part because the way Lothíriel had never been much of a peacock for the courts reminded him of her mother.

"You know Father likes me to stay in the city with him", she said, her voice weary. This was one of those conversations that just kept happening. Well, most of her relationship with Cuileth _was _defined by recurring conversations concerning things they'd never agree about.

"Yes, I suppose", Cuileth allowed and a slight frown appeared on her face, "but you always run a bit wild when you're here, and then it takes an eternity to get you representable and human-like again in Dol Amroth. I really think you should come back with me and Elphir – it would please your Aunt as well."

"Cuileth, please. You're not my mother. I'm happier here, so why can't you just let it be?" Lothíriel asked with a hint of exasperation.

"But if you just even once _tried-" _said her sister-in-law, but the younger woman did not give her a chance to finish.

"Maybe I don't want to try! For once in you life can't you just leave me _alone?!" _she exclaimed and dashed out without bothering to glance at the older woman.

Her emotions were in tumult when she strode out, not even bothering to make a stop at her own chamber to fetch a cloak. For the moment she just needed to get away from this house, and find some place safe and quiet. Tears of frustration were in her eyes as she hurried up towards the Citadel, not really looking where she was going.

In a way, it would have been easier if Cuileth did it all out of wanting to torment her. But it was worse because she knew Elphir's wife just meant well, and their worlds and ways of thinking were so different. Oh, she felt so misplaced and lost and _alone, _and by the time she dashed into the royal stables her tears were already turning into weeping.

* * *

Return to Minas Tirith was more pleasant than Éomer would have thought upon his first arrival. The sight of the White City meant he'd hopefully soon be able to take his men and turn westward and make for home. But the sight was welcome for another reason as well, and this reason was a young woman he was hoping to find again. She had promised him a name, and anyway seeing her was an idea that kindled light inside his heart.

But he knew he couldn't go looking for her right away: he'd have to see to the two injured riders and make sure they were well cared for in the House of Healing, and also speak with Steward Denethor. The lord of the city would want a report on the campaign and he wasn't going to leave that duty for just the two brothers Boromir and Faramir. If he had hoped to achieve that quickly, it was in vain however; Denethor had the three captains in his study for over two hours, and he demanded a report of every last detail. Judging by the looks on the faces of his two sons, this was a normal occurrence.

As a result it was already late when Éomer had finally seen to all the things that had been in his mind. Denethor had his report, the injured riders were on the mend, and the rest of his men were enjoying some well-deserved supper and rest.

It was probably silly to feel so in a city so great which had many things for one to explore, but when Éomer found himself with an idle moment he wasn't really sure of where he should go or what to do. Éowyn would no doubt recommend he familiarise himself with the local society or perhaps attempt to educate himself with all the resources at hand, and some of his more raucous friends would tell him to go and meet some Gondorian girls. Théodred would launch into a lengthy declaration about the possibilities the royal libraries presented, and Uncle would want him to get to know the Steward's sons a bit better. No doubt Faramir and perhaps Boromir too would have been able to show him many wondrous things.

But in the end he decided he'd go the stables and check on Firefoot. If all else failed, a man could always trust his horse.

In the stables there was quiet and calm, the kind that perhaps a horse-lord could understand. Stable hands were away, probably enjoying supper or gone to their own homes already. There was but soft noises of horses, and he sought out his own stallion. Upon his return he had surrendered the horse to a groom, who had cared for Firefoot almost as well as if he had been a man of Rohan. Usually, Éomer preferred to look after his stallion himself – that was, after all, an important part of the companionship between a rider and his horse.

Firefoot, ever the lover of apples, smelled his present right away and eagerly sniffed at his pocket.

"You greedy thing", said the young captain fondly as he pulled out his gift and offered it to his stallion. The apple disappeared with couple great bites.

He was in the middle of petting Firefoot's powerful neck and thinking of the finished campaign when he heard the sniffling sound. Éomer lifted his head and listened attentively, and realised what the sound was: someone was crying.

Curiously he followed the sound, though a part of him wondered if his attention was really appreciated on the instance of crying. But it could very well mean that whoever it was crying was hurt and needed help.

He found her in one of the empty stalls. She sat huddling on a pile of hay, face hidden in her arms as she quietly sobbed. Though he didn't see her face he knew her right away; Éomer felt he'd have known her among a thousand women.

"What is wrong? Are you hurt?" he asked gently as he lay a hand on her shoulder.

She moved fast, as a startled fox that has felt its fate. She reached for her braided hair and pulled out what he had taken for a hair pin decorated with blue water-stones, but as she threatened him with it he realised it was actually a thin blade.

"Peace, Lady! It's just me!" he exclaimed as he jumped back. The woman blinked at him and instantly an abashed look came to her face.

"I'm sorry – I didn't mean to... you just startled me", she mumbled in embarrassment. Blush had come to her pale cheeks, and he thought she needed sun.

"It's quite all right. I should have announced myself somehow", he said gently, "And I rather admire your reflexes. Any warrior would be proud of such swiftness. Now, are you hurt?"

"No... no", she said, looking away from him as she replaced the pin/blade in her hair. What a clever weapon!

"May I ask then why you were crying?" he inquired and offered her his hand to pull her up. She accepted it, and he helped the young woman back on her feet.

"I was just being ridiculous. It's nothing, really. I shouldn't cry over so small things", she said and wiped her eyes on the sleeve of her gown. She was dressed in dark blue shade, plain but made of quality material as far as he could tell. The colour went very nicely with her grey eyes.

"It's not a small thing if it made you cry", he pointed out.

"You're kind, but it's really nothing. I was just arguing with my sister-in-law and I was upset", she sighed. An embarrassed expression returned to her face.

"From our previous conversation I took the impression she was not here in Minas Tirith", he observed.

"You're right. She and her husband – my brother, that is – came here only few days ago", she answered. With somewhat guilty look, she confessed, "I'm already wishing they might go home soon."

"I'm sorry to hear your relationship is like that", said Éomer, wishing there had been some way he could help her. But what could he do about strained relationships between noblewomen, instead perhaps growl at poor _Nihtegale's _sister-in-law?

"It's all right. They'll come back home soon enough anyway", she said nonchalantly. Then she summoned a smile on her face, "I'm glad to see you kept your promise."

"Of course. It was easily kept, as I am not entirely inadequate with a sword", he answered and returned her smile. Perhaps it would wipe away what remained of her distress. "Though I admit I was worried how I would find you again. This city is quite a maze."

"I would have found you, horse-lord", she said softly. A grin came to her face, "For one, you're much too tall to be missed in a crowd. And far too blond, considering we're in Gondor."

That made him laugh.

"Would you believe I even have difficulty blending in back in the Mark?" he said lightly, and now she laughed too.

"Does that make you the king of the giants, then?" she asked. But even as she spoke a sad expression came to her face, like she had remembered something unpleasant. He hesitated but then voiced out his thoughts.

"Lady, now that I've kept my promise to return alive, would you consider granting me that which I asked of you?" he inquired, keeping his tone gentle and without a demand. But her face fell even more, and now she seemed just plain unhappy. He reached for her, but didn't quite dare touch, and asked, "Did I say something wrong?"

"Not at all", she whispered. "I just... I shouldn't-"

What it was she shouldn't she couldn't tell, for a sudden noise had her freezing where she stood.

"Sister! Where are you? Little sister!" called a male voice that was nearing the twin doors that lead into the stables. She looked scared and worried and pale, and Éomer opened his mouth to ask what it was. But he never had the chance of delivering his question, for she did something completely unexpected.

She grabbed him by the front of his coat. There was surprising strength in her hands as she pulled him close to herself, and plastered her mouth over his. Little more than that it was at first, but Éomer had never been one to reject a kiss of a beautiful woman. Yet the still working part of his mind understood her reason of doing this. Whoever that man was outside, this strange woman was trying to hide... and he was happy to help.

And so he pushed her against one stony post of a stall, hiding her figure with his own and her face with his hands, and he kissed her.

"Sister-" the voice called again, but Éomer did not turn to see the doubtlessly shocked face of the man; he did register the surprised intake of breath that somehow managed to sound offended. If he was her brother and had recognised her behind the horse-lord, Éomer would probably have been in some serious trouble.

"Uh, you two just go one, hmm..." was what her seeker managed, and then apparently left.

But the woman before Éomer did not pull back. No, she did no move to end the kiss, though the man seeking her was gone. Instead, a moan rose from the back of her throat, and she threw her arms about his neck... and she kissed him with fire he had never felt before, and perhaps she was inexperienced and clumsy but he did not care. How could he, when it was like there was the very sun in her kiss, and her lips sought the lines of his mouth, and her fingers were in his hair?

His hands acted out of their own volition as he grabbed her from under her knees, lifting her up, imprisoning her there between himself and the post... oh, if he should let go, he'd die.

Eventually air became necessary, however... and he became aware of the fact that he had rather lustfully kissed a woman who was a daughter of a high noble lord for all he knew. With great effort Éomer was able to pull back and let her stand on her own feet again, but in the depths of her grey eyes he saw his desire answered. He thought of kissing her again and forgetting about the world for another blissful moment, but there was still an important question to be answered.

"Your name", he uttered hoarsely as he rested his forehead against hers, "Please."

"I'm sorry. I can't. I can't answer", she whispered and her voice was broken, and none of it made sense, none expect that he wanted her.

"Why?" he wanted to now. If she should take her leave tonight and leave him with nothing but a memory of her kiss... how was he then supposed to ever return Rohan and pretend all was well?

"Because this can't be. My father... he'd never allow this. And if I see you again – kiss you again – I don't know how I should let go", she answered brokenly, and cruel as her words were the grip of her hands about him did not turn any slighter.

"Then I will call you _Nihtegale", _he murmured, trying to calm down his heart. But she was so close, and all he wanted was to kiss her again, and there was an ache in his chest he had not known before.

"What is that?" she asked, looking like she was barely able to speak.

"Nightingale. For you called yourself the odd bird, and I've only seen you at the day's dying", Éomer answered. How was he supposed to let her leave? How should he let go of her, knowing his way lead back to the Mark, and there was little hope of ever seeing her again?

A sob escaped her lips and she buried her face in his shoulder, trembling with tears she did not wish to let fall. So he held her, burying his face in her dark hair... there was a scent of flowers and against his weather-beaten cheek her hair was like silk.

"Come with me, _Nihtegale. _Ride North with me and let me wrap you in my cloak", he said suddenly, the words pouring out before he could think of them.

She looked up at him and her eyes were bright and clear, and for one insane but glorious moment he thought she would say yes. But then she cast down her gaze.

"I can't", she murmured and he knew she was right; a noblewoman could never – _would never – _just let some strange barbarian sweep her off her feet and bring her away into north with him... sweet as it was, it could only ever be a dream.

Her hand was gentle when she placed it on his cheek. But in her eyes there was deep sadness.

"You need to let me go", she said softly; his arms were still about her, he realised then... but to just let go? How should he have the strength?

"So you would take your leave, perhaps for ever, and I may not even know your name?" he asked sorrowfully.

"It is better that way. If we don't exchange names then perhaps it is easier for the both of us", she said softly. "Perhaps you'll even forget me."

"No. No", he argued and sought her lips for another kiss, but this time she did not let it go for long.

"Please. You have to let me go, before I say yes and let you take me where you will", she moaned, in such pain that it pierced his heart more than his own grief of knowing what was the right thing.

And so Éomer did do what he knew was right, and let her pass from his arms; the Nightingale fled and left him behind, but it was not all alone.

For with her went his heart.

* * *

**A/N: **Greetings from the sickbed. Everything is Éomer and Lothíriel and everything is crazy.

The "history" about Scribe Lemberion and the written language of Rohirrim are my own invention. I don't know if Rohirrim canonically had a written language at all, but be it as may they weren't a literate as a people. Aragorn notes in Two Towers that they don't write books but sing many songs. In this piece too Rohirrim certainly prefer their songs over written records, but I decided they'd have a written language, even if it's just mostly used in the court.

_Nihtegale _is Old English for nightingale.

Inspiration for the chapter: Yiruma - River Flows In You

Thanks for the comments, I'm glad to hear you guys are excited about this little story that came out of fever. Now I say no more, but go to sleep.


	3. Chapter 3

_Then Beren lay upon the ground in a swoon, as one slain at once by bliss and grief; and he fell into a sleep as it were into an abyss of shadow, and waking he was cold as stone, and his heart barren and forsaken. And wandering in mind he groped as one that is stricken with sudden blindness, and seeks with hands to grasp the vanished light. _

_- _Of Beren and Lúthien

* * *

**Chapter 3**

It took some time for Lothíriel to calm down enough for her to be able to go home. She knew Father was probably very worried about her, but she couldn't go and face him looking like she had bawled out her eyes. It'd only disconcert her father more, and tonight she simply did not have it in herself to deal with it.

Right as it had been, leaving behind the golden-haired man had still broken her heart and left it in pieces she didn't know how to fix. It had taken all her strength of will to just tear herself away... and when she had dashed away in tears, all in her had screamed for her to turn back and return into his arms. How sweet would it have been, to _just let go, _and allow him to take her wherever he wanted... But to give herself to a man who she didn't even know? That simply could not be, especially when she had no way of telling whether it was her heart he wanted instead of just her body. But then, his eyes had been honest and it had seemed to her that he had felt the same yearning that had burned her...

Perhaps, sometimes, you could lose your heart just like that... and the one to steal it would give back their own as easily.

But those were just dreams, and dreams could not live in the real world. And so, hard as it was, she put aside her heart.

Sun had already set when she got home. The gate guard let her in and already from his expression Lothíriel knew something was afoot; when she made her way inside she thought perhaps Father had gotten worried over her absence. However, when she entered and found her family in the parlour, she instantly realised it was something else entirely.

Cuileth was sobbing into her handkerchief, and both Elphir and Father were there trying to calm her down. Lothíriel had long since learned what a powerful thing Cuileth's tears were, and the worst thing about them they were always _real. _Elphir more or less lost his mind each time she wept, and Valar have pity on that poor soul who was blamed for it.

"Sister! Where in the name of Elbereth you have been?!" he exclaimed the moment he saw she had arrived.

"I was out", she said reluctantly. The truth was about the last thing she _could _say.

"Out! When Cuileth was here like this! How could you, first upset her so that she began to cry like this, and then just run away and make us think orcs may very well have stolen you!" shouted her brother.

"Excuse me, but I was under the impression orcs don't yet come to the Citadel for their raids! I was perfectly safe", Lothíriel snapped. Yes, safe she had been, in the arms of a great golden-haired warrior of Rohan... she shook herself and glared at Elphir, "And I was just as upset, but of course that doesn't matter at all!"

"Lothíriel, we have talked about this", said Father now. "You're too hard on your sister-in-law. She just means well."

"If she did, then perhaps she should start to listen to me unlike she has until now!" said the young princess angrily. Her words, however, only managed to make Cuileth weep even more, and the older woman buried her face in her handkerchief. Elphir's eyes blazed.

"How dare you! Is there no kindness in your heart, sister? I demand you apologise to her immediately!" he ranted.

"I'll apologise to her when the sky falls", Lothíriel growled and strode out, paying no attention to the protests of her father and brother. Once again tears were filling her eyes as she made her way towards her own chambers, and locking the door behind herself was quite difficult with her blurry eyes. Somehow she was able to do it however, and then she tossed herself on the bed.

Oh, how she hated this! How she loathed being so... so _imperfect, _so ill-fitting in this fine society and among these great people, to whom all of this came so naturally. Surely she'd have been happier if she had been born some farmer's daughter far away from this place...

As her tears gradually began to subside, Lothíriel wished she had taken the tall Rohir's offer and let him take her where he would. By now she could be riding away from this place, and there beside her would have been a man who thought her enough just as she was. That was what he had meant, wasn't it? He had looked at her and liked what he had seen... there was cold satisfaction in imagining how it could have been with him, going to live in his northern land. They would have had a small house in some green and fertile valley, and she'd have learned things like baking bread and scrubbing floors and chopping wood. Her hands would have turned hard and sun would have scorched her pale skin, but he'd tell she was beautiful. He'd bring her flowers from the meadows and their children would have that golden hair of his, and when she next saw her Gondorian family the would not recognise her, for she'd have become wild just like he was.

_Yet she already was, for her heart __**was **__wild, because how else would she have kissed him?_

But no matter how wonderful it was to imagine a life like that, she knew it was something she could not have. She was not brave enough to try and take it, and a man like him really would want a woman for a wife who didn't know how to do simple household chores. And if she imagined her father and uncle would just let her pursue such a life she was sadly mistaken. The only thing such an insane feat would achieve was bad blood between the realms of Gondor and Rohan.

Lothíriel sighed and rolled over on her back. Wrong as it was, her heart ached for it. Why was something so forbidden so sweet and tempting?

Her thoughts were interrupted then by a knock on her door. Her father's voice came through it: "Daughter? Could you perhaps let me in?"

"Have you come to lecture and scold me?" she asked back, her voice almost breaking down.

"No. I'd just like to talk with you", Father said. He didn't sound angry, just sad. The princess sighed and got up on her feet, and made way to the door.

Her father's face was weary and troubled when she let him in. Quietly, he sat down in the chair she offered and regarded her before speaking.

"I'd like to hear your version of what happened", he said at last.

"_Nothing, _Father. Nothing to warrant that little scene in the parlour at least", Lothíriel answered tiredly. "It was like always. Cuileth and I just don't understand each other."

He sighed and rubbed his forehead.

"You know how it is with Elphir. He hates it when your sister-in-law cries – to him it's always a sign the world is ending", he said.

"I know, but he's not going to make me apologise for nothing. I'm not going to say I'm sorry for who and how I am", Lothíriel answered, now more heatedly. That brought a small sad smile to the face of her father.

"Of course. And I do not ask you to do it, daughter", he said softly. He reached for her hand and gave it a gentle squeeze, "Don't worry, my dear. I will speak with him."

"Thank you, Father", said the young princess. He sought her eyes and looked worried.

"Lothíriel, I have wondered what is the matter with you lately. You don't seem yourself. Is something bothering you?" he asked.

A part of her would have liked to spill out everything, but Lothíriel knew she couldn't tell her father about the man who now walked with her heart in his keeping. And what evil things might it cause, if she told him how a stranger from the north had asked her to go with him? Father would have been angry and he'd have found out who dared to tempt his daughter with something like that. If that happened, there would never be a chance for her to see the Rohir again... even if it already was unlikely.

"I'm fine, Father. Really", she said, trying to sound as convincing as she could.

"Is that the truth?" he asked softly.

"Yes! Please, don't send me away! I don't want to go – I want to stay here", Lothíriel said quickly and reached for his hand. Father's expression became gentle again and he gave her a comforting smile.

"How could I send you away? I know you're not too happy back in Dol Amroth. And I like having you here, as you know", said Father, giving her a smile. She nodded at that and felt thankful.

He got up then and patted her shoulder. He said, "I'll go and talk with Elphir. Will you at least join us for the supper?"

The idea didn't seem too tempting. Even if Father managed to calm down her brother, he'd probably still glare and brood at her, and Cuileth would be very quiet and upset.

"I'm not really too hungry. I think I'll just go to bed", Lothíriel said weakly at last. Indeed, there was a knot in her stomach and the idea of food only made her feel vaguely nauseous.

"All right. Sleep well then, dear", said Father and made for the door.

Lothíriel sat on the edge of her bed long after Imrahil had gone. She stared down at her hands, and felt like two animals were fighting in her. One was Duty and the other was Freedom, and the latter had the dark eyes of the north.

_Should I stay here then, until a day comes that I accept my chain, and what life is left in me is grey and without joy? _

And so she made her choice.

* * *

Father didn't know of course, but it actually took little effort for Lothíriel to slip out of her window, sneak through the garden, and then climb the tall wall that sheltered the Prince's house. Perhaps it was bad of her to keep to herself that knowledge, but then again one never knew when an escape became necessary, and anyway she didn't think many were as good climbers as she was. It wasn't like this high up in the city there even stalked people who would make use of the knowledge that wall to the Prince Imrahil's house was one you could climb. And the man himself was a legend large enough for anyone with dark ideas to very seriously consider if breaking into his house was wise.

Perhaps, after some time, she could tell him that. Father would want to know how she had gotten away – and how she had made her way to the man who, she hoped, would set her free. Of course she knew she was placing her hope on someone she did not know... but sometimes, one has to take the leap of faith.

Night was late when she got to the Citadel. She came here so often the guards paid little heed to her; Prince Imrahil's daughter could move about with surprising freedom. Likely they were going to regret that by next day when she could not be found anywhere. Eventually, Father would find her letter... and perhaps riders would be sent after them. But _he, _the tall rider, would know what to do. And together they would find a place without boundaries.

Lothíriel made way first to the royal stables. She'd leave her bag there – she had packed only the most necessary objects – and come back for it once she had found _him _and made him understand this was really happening.

However, she realised something was amiss the moment she entered the stables. She immediately saw that the great warhorses of Rohan were not in their stalls anymore, and she did not see the large grey stallion that belonged to _him. _Her heart sunk as she wondered what this meant. Had they gone already? Had they left, and she hadn't even told him goodbye?

She wasted no time as she returned to where the guards stood watching the night. Both seemed immensely bored, as the nights up here in the Citadel were very quiet and calm.

"Excuse me", Lothíriel asked the guards softly, "can I ask something?"

"Of course, my lady", he answered. He looked like he even welcomed this little distraction.

"I was just wondering", she began carefully, trying to come up with words that would not reveal too much. "Did the Rohirrim already leave the city?"

"They did, an hour or two ago. Word came from Rohan, and apparently their leader was sorely needed in their own land. They left in great haste", answered the guard.

"Oh. Thank you", said Lothíriel, and how she was able to keep steady her voice and not burst in tears right there, she did not know.

Slowly, she made her way back to home. Tonight, Duty had won after all.

* * *

_November 3016, Dol Amroth_

The winter months by the sea had never been Lothíriel's favourite thing. It could be beautiful here in spring and summer, but winter was just one unending storm. She missed Minas Tirith so much that it was almost like a physical hurt, but for the moment return was not possible. For one, Father had come to stay in Dol Amroth for couple of months, and without him it would not have been possible for her either to stay in the White City.

And so she had come to this fair city by the sea, where she had been born, and where she felt like a prisoner.

It had been months since the unfortunate encounters back in Minas Tirith. The Rohirric rider whom she had kissed in the warm darkness of the stables had gone, leaving behind nothing but a pain that would not quite go away. He was there always, filling her dreams and haunting her thoughts, and the absence of him was an ache in that place where her heart was supposed to be. Insane as it was, a man she had only met three times would not leave her in peace. And knowing _what could have been _made the return so much harder.

_If only... _

Cuileth and Aunt Ivriniel at least were happy that she was back, and they had taken her low spirits for a newly developed interest in the education of a princess. But truth was she was just too tired and discouraged to really fight back. At least trying to follow their lead helped her not to think of a man she ought to forget. Amrothos had been probably the only one to see that something was wrong, but even he for all his attempts had not been able to make her speak. It wasn't that she didn't trust him, but Lothíriel simply could not talk about the Rider and what happened in the stables of Minas Tirith.

It was one day of late November, when Lothíriel was holed up in the old study that had belonged to her Grandfather, that Father came seeking for her. The chamber was little used these days and the furniture beyond ancient, but Lothíriel liked this place. It was always quiet and the views from the window over the city were really nice. Not to mention one tapestry on the wall, which she had often sat staring at when she had been a child. Grandfather had said the tapestry depicted two great heroes of the First Age in the mists of time, and he had often told her their story. There was Beren Erchamion, a mortal Man who had fallen in love with an Elven Princess, and his beloved Lúthien Tinúviel. In the tapestry, they held the great Silmaril, which had earned them the consent of Thingol her father.

Lately Lothíriel had found it both difficult and comforting to look at that tapestry, and both those things were because of a man whose name was not Beren. Now she did not watch the image of two long-dead lovers, but instead looked out over the city of Dol Amroth. For once she had been practising her embroidery on a shirt she had thought to give to Amrothos – if he'd accept her clumsy needlework – but eventually her mind had left on its own paths, and travelled first to Minas Tirith, and then even further towards north. She had thought of horses and fair-haired men and one man in particular, wondering how he was doing, and if he was all right.

"There you are, daughter", called Father's voice, effectively summoning her back to reality. Lothíriel straightened up on her seat and gave a small smile to him as he entered the round room in the tower.

"Hello, Father. What is it?" she asked.

"I was just hoping to talk with you about something important", he said gently as he took a creaking chair and placed it before her. If she could read his face at all, Lothíriel knew right away it was something serious.

"Am I in trouble?" she asked warily. Father chuckled softly.

"Of course not, dear child", he said gently, but then his face became slightly apprehensive. He continued, "Your aunt says it is a high time we talked about this, but Amrothos firmly believes you're going to be angry with me for even mentioning it. Lothíriel, I have been thinking about the future, and I was wondering whether you'd be ready and willing for a marriage."

She instantly sat up straighter, and her heart beat faster – as if she were a rabbit pursued by hungry wolves. She certainly felt like one as she thought of that horrendous word her father had just spoken.

"Amrothos is quite right, Father", she said in clipped tones. "I don't want to get married."

"Calm down, dear. I don't mean that you will be wed first thing tomorrow. I just wanted to talk with you about it – hear what you think of it, and if you might even have some young man in mind already", he said soothingly, leaning forward in his chair.

Lothíriel blinked and looked away briefly. Oh, she certainly did have someone in mind, but she had no idea who he even was. Most like he was but a simple Rider of Rohan who owned not much more than his horse and his cloak. Father would never let her marry a man like that.

"Father, I haven't even turned 18 yet. Isn't it a bit early to speak of this?" she asked reluctantly.

"Of course. And like I said, I'm not saying you need to do this tomorrow. Your aunt thinks you're ready, though... but you know how she is, and I'm not going to make you do something you don't want to do", he said gently. That did console her and Lothíriel relaxed. She had already thought he had all planned out already.

Father spoke again, "I'm not talking about this because I want to suggest you need to wed a man out of duty. It's just because I'm not going to be here forever, and I would like to know there's someone to take care of you when I'm gone."

"I can take care of myself", Lothíriel said defensively, but he smiled gently.

"Oh, daughter, I know that. It's not that sort of care I even mean. What I'm trying to say is I'd like there to be someone _for you. _Someone who would comfort you when you're sad, give you a hug when you need it, and make you smile. I worry for you sometimes, seeing how lonely and sad you have been lately", he said slowly. Father reached for her hand and considered it as if there was some secret hidden in that limb.

The princess did not know how to answer. It touched her, knowing her father cared and worried for her like that. But how should she tell him she couldn't have just any man there beside her? And how to explain that her heart was given already to a man Gondorian courts would never see as worthy of her?

"Don't be so concerned about me, Father. I'm fine as it is. I can... I'm capable of taking care of myself. And it's not so bad to be alone. I can handle it", she said softly.

"Yes, but I feel it is only because you haven't known what it is like to love and be loved in return. It's a safe haven in this world that is sometimes so cold and cruel. And you remind me of your mother so much sometimes, and she told me to look after you... I remember how she was before we married, how our love made her flourish. I would see you flourish the same way, Lothíriel. I know you would, if you just found someone who would cherish you", Father said, his voice very soft and gentle.

"Of course", was all she could really say.

"Then what would you say of an arrangement like this? When we go back to Minas Tirith, I'll ask around and see if there are any young unmarried men in the city. Perhaps your uncle could organise a ball or something, and we'll see if there's anyone you like. I don't mean you should make up your mind right away – just try the waters for a bit?" he suggested then.

What could she really say about that? She could see this was important to her father, and Lothíriel knew it was only because he really was concerned about her. And so she sighed and nodded.

"All right, Father."

* * *

_March 3017, Edoras_

This was the moment he had been yearning for.

Of course Éomer knew it was a poor way of coping. These imaginations were fleeting, and for the brief moment of bliss they brought the payment was far too bitter. Yet that one instance, when he imagined that the wench he was with was _her, _was just too sweet.

He never looked her in the eyes. No, the blue of them was not the grey he'd have wanted to see, and her face would just have reminded him of how idiotic and futile this self-betrayal was. For the same reason he never kissed her, because he knew it wouldn't be the same.

But as much as he would hate himself afterwards, this one moment when their breathing was building up and he was buried in her warmth as he thrust again and again was all he could have. Fantasy it was, a dream for the weak, an antidote that would turn poison after a while.

She was moaning his name now, and he was picking up speed. There she was between himself and the wall of the barn, and the noises of the tavern carried from few yards away. But he let himself think nothing, except for the feel of her, and _it was __**her; **_light hair was turned dark and tanned skin was pale under his hands, she was here with him and she was his own...

That thought brought him over the edge, though he pulled out just before it happened. Illegitimate children were the last thing he wanted running about here, and Uncle would never have let him hear the end of it if he was so irresponsible. It was even quite likely he'd have ordered Éomer to marry right away.

"Mmm. Don't go yet", said the wench. Evidently she had come down from her own heights for a bit and if he could read her face at all it looked like she'd rather like another round. However, that familiar feel of disgust was already building inside him. It was not really towards this woman, but more for _himself. _

_Oh, he was weak. _

"No. I have to go", he muttered as he covered himself and buckled his belt.

"Please. Didn't you like it?" she asked, pouting in a way she probably thought attractive.

"That's just the problem", he told her and turned, not standing to look at her for one moment more.

The first time he had allowed himself that thought when he had been with a woman it had been purely for a rational reason. He had told himself that if he just imagined it was _her, _he'd get over it. He could forget about her and move on with his life, and perhaps the image of her would stop haunting him day and night.

However the thing was that afterwards he never remembered the women themselves. No, they'd fade, like he had hoped _she _would. But _Nihtegale _herself became more vivid with each moment of passion, and soon it was not because he was trying to forget. It was because it only became harder and harder to let go.

In the end, his attempt to forget the woman had just turned her into an obsession.

And though it had almost been a year since he had last seen her, he could not stop thinking of her.

There were moments he thought about racing back to Mundburg, finding her there, and begging her to reconsider. He had thought of finding her father too, and thought of all the ways he'd try to change the man's mind. Charm or blackmail? Slaying some dragon somewhere or trying to frighten the man to give his consent? Stealing her or eloping with her into some faraway land?

It was insane. No woman had ever affected Éomer like this; him, the great ladies' man who according to stories had a wench for each finger! Well, he had certainly had women for even for his toes lately. But none of them was _her, _and when he thought of her he wanted _so much more _than just brief passion behind some barn.

Logically thinking, he knew he ought to forget about her. It wasn't likely that he should see her again... and chances were she had already moved on. Really, she was little more than an apparition... a brief dream that would not come again.

But his was a wild heart and a kiss like hers was not easily forgotten.

Éothain pushed a tankard of ale towards him when he returned to the tavern. His friend said nothing but the expression on the older man's face was enough. Éomer paid no heed, however; he took a long swig from his tankard and considered drinking himself silly tonight.

"You know", said the captain, "If you continue acting like this, your uncle is going to regret naming you the Marshal."

"Please, Éothain. I don't want to have this conversation", said the younger man in a suffering voice.

"Oh, I know you don't. But you must listen to me. You're acting like a lad ten years younger than you are, and it is not fitting for a Marshal. I thought your years of drinking and chasing after every skirt in Rohan were already past", Éothain said, frowning as he spoke. "Yes, I know you're one of the most eligible men in the Mark and the ladies love you, but you must start behaving already – like you did before now. What is it that has gotten to you lately?"

"Éothain, you're my best friend and I love you like a brother, but would you please let this be? It's none of your business", said Éomer in a suffering voice.

The older man sighed and looked unhappy, but he did not say more. However, the young Marshal did know this was not the last he'd hear of this. And perhaps his friend was right. For himself, he had little self-respect as of late, and he had no idea of how to fix any of it... except just to stop. But how was he supposed to stop when it meant letting go?

He was staring at his ale morosely when the man fell on him. Tavern fights were not uncommon, especially in the Red Boar, which was one of the more obscure ones in Edoras. Unaffectedly he pushed the man away towards his fighting partner, who was shouting insults. But then, as he was about to down the last of his ale and was thinking of getting some more, Éothain shouted.

"Éomer! Watch out!"

He just about dodged the fist aimed for the back of his head. Without hesitation he threw the tankard towards the face of the man who'd have knocked him out and used the moment of his opponent's confusion to get up on his feet.

It was full-wrought brawl now. More men were joining the fight all about him, and it was a mayhem of fists and blond hair and knocked teeth.

But as he looked at the man who had tried to hit him Éomer suddenly caught the gleam of metal, and he saw the dagger, aimed between his ribs... it was thanks to his warrior's reflexes that he caught his would-be killer by wrist before the blade could find its intended destination.

The man who'd take his life was as any other: light of hair, bearded, strong. Obviously a rider, but not quite as broad or tall as the Marshal himself... and evidently not quite prepared for the one he had meant to kill. For Éomer was not a warrior for nothing, and it was not for his drinking habits of late or the women that he had only two months ago been appointed a Marshal of the Mark.

He had the knife in his boot, placed there just for an instance like this; it slipped out with easy grace when her reached for it, furious and quick. So, with one hand he kept at bay his opponent's blade, and in the other he had his own dagger, which he brought to the neck of his enemy.

"Who sent you?" he growled. "Was it Wormtongue?"

He did not get a chance to drag the answer out of the man, because then one of the attendees to the brawl collided with him, and he briefly lost his balance. His would-be killer took the opportunity and freed himself, and then made for the Marshal again. However, Éomer was just able to jump aside and the knife only scratched his arm.

But then Éothain came, wielding nothing less than a chair, and his eyes were ablaze. The captain could be quite a terrifying man when he was angry. Apparently the stranger who'd have killed the very nephew of the King thought so too, for he quickly fell back and disappeared in the crowd.

"You're hurt!" Éothain bellowed over the noise and tossed aside the chair, which was quickly claimed by another man. The captain grabbed his Marshal by his good arm and dragged him out.

"It's only a scratch", Éomer said dismissively.

"I don't care. This is the last time you go into a tavern. I will not have you die in some idiotic brawl!" Éothain announced. He still dragged his friend by arm, and he never stopped ranting before they got up to Meduseld.

* * *

The healer had already tied up the scratch (wound, as Éothain had insisted) and gone when Éowyn came. From her expression Éomer instantly knew his captain had ratted him out to her, and he made a mental note of needing to have a long talk with his friend very soon.

"Brother", she said; her voice instantly revealed he was in trouble now.

"Éowyn", he answered, bracing himself for the inevitable.

"Captain Éothain tells me you were hurt in a tavern brawl", she said, crossing her arms on her chest.

"Like I told him already, it's but a scratch. Or does it look like I'm about to fall on my death bed?" he asked tiredly, pouring himself some ale. Oh, if he hadn't yearned for sweet oblivion before, now he certainly did.

"Don't you dare dismiss it! You could be the greatest fighter alive and still get killed while you were trying to get yourself drunk as a skunk!" Éowyn snapped angrily. "How many times do I have to tell you to be more careful?!"

"Well, excuse me for not realising that the things had already gotten so bad that our uncle's own adviser would have me killed", he said. He really was not in mood for this argument.

"It's not only that. I have also heard talk that the wenches of the town have received particularly frequent attention from you lately", Éowyn said, managing a thin line between indifference and distaste.

"Sister, have these talks ever lead into anything else than arguments before?" he asked in a pained voice. She snorted and snatched away his mug of ale to his great annoyance.

"No, but that doesn't mean we're not going to have this talk anyway. Brother, I know you're popular with the ladies and that the wenches from Westfold to Eastemnet would go wailing if you stopped showing them your favour, but don't you think this is quite enough? We _are _the King's sister-children, after all", she said in displeasure, sounding so much like their late mother it was a bit scary.

"What does it matter to you?" Éomer inquired. This was really something he _did not want _to talk of with her. He thought she'd get only angrier, but instead something sad appeared on her face.

"Brother, please. You're the only thing that is left of our family in Aldburg. And the way Uncle is these days, and with Théodred away so often... Éomer, I need you. I can't see you continue spiralling down into ruin like this. It's going to kill you, sooner or later, unless you stop. This is not like you", she said and there was a pleading tone in her voice. Instantly it made him feel horrible... but even more so, he needed to see that tone gone. So he got up and went to give her a one-armed hug.

"Éowyn, you needn't worry for me like this. I can take care of myself", he told her softly.

"You're my brother, of course I worry for you", she answered like it was the most obvious thing in the world. Thinking again, it probably _was. _She searched his face, "What is it, Éomer? What is bothering you?"

He sighed and looked away, wondering how he should articulate his thoughts and shame and the pain of wanting something he could never have.

"I'm... I'm just trying to forget someone", he said quietly at last.

"Someone? Do I know her?" she asked.

"No. I met her in Mundburg", he said miserably. He had never really been able to keep anything from Éowyn.

"Why are you trying to forget her? Go and wed her, if that's what this is about. I'm sure Uncle wouldn't mind, considering his own mother – our grandmother that is – was from Gondor", she pointed out.

"She's not available. I believe she was a daughter of some high prudish lord who'd never give her hand in marriage to a horse-lord", he mumbled. Looking at her and seeing her wide-eyed expression, he hurriedly continued, "It's nothing like that! I didn't dishonour her. She didn't even tell me her real name, hoping that I might forget about her."

"Well, she had more sense than you, then", Éowyn said dryly. But she sighed, "I'm sorry to hear that. I know how your mind and heart work, and... if you feel like this, then she must be something special. Is she truly so beyond your reach?"

"She seemed to think so", said the young Marshal.

"Perhaps you should go and find her again. If you just found her..." she said, her voice trailing off.

"How do you suggest then I should go and tell Uncle that I need to go to Mundburg? It was difficult when I was captain to Ánfeald, but now it's just impossible. A Marshal can't just ride to Gondor the moment he feels like doing so", Éomer pointed out.

However, Éowyn smiled.

"Well, it just happens I overheard a messenger talk with Uncle... apparently Steward Denethor asks for the King to send riders to aid him, and he has particularly asked for you, brother. You're going to return to Gondor."

* * *

**A/N: **And here's update. I know people are probably wanting an update to _House of Sun, _but as much I've tried to work on it I just can't get it anywhere. Not to mention my flu got even worse and writing anything was out of question. I suppose I just really need to get this story out of my system before I can get back to _House of Sun. _I promise I'll try and get a new chapter done this week.

So, our lovers are more or less tearing themselves apart, but perhaps their reunion is not so far as they might think. I know this all develops quite fast, but like I said earlier, I'm trying to keep this piece short. That is actually both because of _House of Sun _and that other story I'm thinking of.

Hope you enjoy this update, and thanks for reviewing!

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Inspiration for the chapter: Zola Jesus - Skin

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**solar1 - **Thank you! I'm better now actually. :)

**Borys68 - **I like it too, though later I noticed I had written "instead" when I ought to use "except". I can't English when I'm sick, apparently. :D

**Talia119 - **Perhaps he'll return even sooner! Sadly answering those questions is going to take a little while more...

**Liski - **Thank you for your corrections! Please don't think I'm offended by them - I very much appreciate it when my mistakes are pointed out. I will have to fix those lines. Thanks again for pointing them out!

**BlueNynaeve - **Here comes!

**memory bleeds - **Well, I hope this update at least is slightly better in your opinion.

**Kiiimberly - **I fear those will have to wait for a bit still. :)

**TheCountessCorpse - **Thanks for your kind words! Hope you like this update too, though there is not interaction between our love-birds. Maybe that'll be fixed in the next chapter!


	4. Chapter 4

"_Then Beren sprang from before Celegorm full upon the speeding horse of Curufin that had passed him; and the Leap of Beren is renowned among Men and Elves. He took Curufin by the throat from behind, and hurled him backward, and they fell to the ground together. The horse reared and fell, but Lúthien was flung aside, and lay upon the grass. __" _

_- _Of Beren and Lúthien

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**Chapter 4**

_April 3017, Minas Tirith_

The girl in the mirror looked like a princess. Her dark hair cascaded on her shoulders, and there were tiny pearls on her brow, and her dress was white and silver. Lothíriel had never really felt pretty, but now she certainly did, and when she had first seen herself in a mirror she wondered if some magic had been used to achieve this.

In retrospect, she wondered if it had been too good an idea to agree to Father's idea – especially when Cuileth and Aunt Ivriniel got wind of it. They seemed to think all was agreed already, and Lothíriel was going to have to choose her future husband in this ball in Minas Tirith. So they had joined their forces and even found a new handmaiden for her, whose achievement it now was that she looked like she actually was Imrahil's daughter.

It did terrify her, and as the months had gone by she had gotten more worried of what precisely would take place once the day of ball came. She had certainly been happy when Father had said it'd have to be postponed for some time: he was too busy in Dol Amroth and so couldn't possibly travel to Minas Tirith with her. She had heard there was more problems concerning pirates than usually, and Amrothos had said something about how they feared the pirates were trying to get a foothold from Pelargir.

Eventually in February Uncle Denethor had decided that this pirate problem needed to be sorted out, and he had done something to make Lothíriel's heart beat with sudden excitement. Apparently he had sent word for Rohan and asked for riders to help with the pirate problem; she didn't know how horsemen were supposed to help against sea raiders, but evidently it had something to do with luring out the pirates inland and then destroying their vessels.

Whatever were Uncle's plans, she had mostly thought of the Riders who would come to help. Would _he _be there too? He had been reluctant to see her go, so perhaps he'd seize this chance of returning to Gondor, and seek her out in Minas Tirith? But then, it was more likely that he had forgotten about her, like she had told him to... Lothíriel did not know why, but somehow the idea that he had moved on and wouldn't recognise her if they met again hurt her very deeply. Rationally thinking she knew it would have been for the better if he _had _continued with his life, but to her heart rebelled at the idea.

_She wanted to see him again._

However, she soon heard the Riders had passed very quickly through the White City on their way south, and she had no business going that way. As a matter of fact, if she tried to travel to Pelargir and possibly endanger herself, Father would be so angry with her he might not let her leave home ever again.

But then the battle against the pirates had turned out victorious, and Denethor's idea to call for the help of Rohirrim had apparently been crucial in bringing down the menace from the sea. So Father had sent word from Pelargir that Lothíriel should journey to Minas Tirith with Amrothos and he'd join them later. According to him this ball thing should not be postponed more, as these days more and more of the nobility were forsaking the city.

And now she was sat there before the mirror and she felt not too good. Why had she agreed to do this again? How was she supposed to navigate her way in the middle of young unmarried men of the nobility? They were stylish and handsome and suave, and she had no idea of how to talk with them. Granted, her brothers were like that too, but they _were _her brothers. That was an entirely different thing.

A knock on the door distracted her then.

"Sister? Are you quite ready yet?" asked the voice of Amrothos. He too preferred Minas Tirith over Dol Amroth, but both he and Erchirion were usually busy serving on Father's ships. So, this chance of travelling to the White City had been a welcome change.

"I am", Lothíriel answered. Her voice came as a squeak and her brother entered.

"You look like you were going to attend to your own execution instead of a ball", he observed and shook his head. "Relax, sister. It's not going to be so bad."

"That's easy for you to say. No one is expecting you to find a potential husband in this ball", she pointed out.

"I thought Father said you don't have to make up your mind – just to take a look if there's someone you like", Amrothos reminded her and fell lazily to sit on the foot of her bed. He was dressed in dark blue and looked quite dashing.

"Of course I'm aware of that, but you know our uncle, and he's going to wish at least it's going to be taken care of now. He'd like to have me married already. Otherwise he wouldn't have bothered to organise the ball. He has greater concerns after all", Lothíriel said wearily. A part of her would have torn off her ball gown and hidden in some dark corner until the morning came.

"Would it be so wrong if you found someone nice, then? Give it a chance, sister", Amrothos coaxed.

"I suppose you're right", she sighed, looking down. "It's just..."

"You have someone in mind already", realised her brother. Looking at him through the mirror, she saw he had sat up straight and was watching her with surprised eyes. And she knew she couldn't lie. So Lothíriel nodded silently.

"Then what is all this? Go find him in the ball and get things rolling! You needn't waste away in Dol Amroth if there's some fellow you're in love with!" Amrothos said like it was the simplest thing in the world.

"That's just it, brother. He's not going to be there", said the princess in small, unhappy voice.

"He's of low birth", he said quietly. Now he looked worried.

"Well, I don't know. He never said anything, and... I don't know who he is. But I know enough to understand Father would not allow it", she said miserably.

"Who could it possibly be, for Father to disapprove? He loves you very much, and if there was some man who would make you happy, then why would he try to prevent it?" Amrothos wondered out loud. Lothíriel hesitated: should she really tell him the truth about the Rider? But now, looking at her brother, she knew he wouldn't let it go before she had told him everything.

"Because this man I am talking about is one of the Rohirrim", she blurted out and cast down her eyes, unable to face the horrified expression that no doubt had risen to the face of Amrothos.

She heard his steps then, and he lay a hand on her shoulder.

"Sister", he said softly, "I agree Rohirrim are a strange bunch, and probably all of them are more or less insane, but why should that be a problem? It's not like Father hates them or something like that. I think you should just speak of it to him."

"No, I don't think so. He told me he'd not give my hand in marriage to a man of Rohan, unless it was the King himself", Lothíriel said, finally daring to look up. Amrothos did not seem horrified; instead, his expression was sympathetic.

"But surely he would-" he tried. After all, he didn't know Father the way she did.

"Amrothos, no! Let it go. This is not your problem. Swear to me you won't say anything of this to Father", she insisted hotly and got up on her feet.

"All right. I swear. I'll keep your secret", Amrothos said and there was surrender in his voice. He looked at her gently, "I still think you should just speak of it with Father. Otherwise it's going to eat out your heart."

"I can manage, brother", she said sharply. But then she sighed, "I'm ready. Let us go and face this beast."

* * *

When he had first heard the news that Steward Denethor had asked for Rohirric riders, Éomer's spirits had experienced a fast uplifting. He'd get to ride south again, and there was a chance of finding her again... perhaps he could seek her out, and try to change not only her mind but also her father's.

So he and some of his men had left for Gondor, and it had been obvious that his sister and Éothain were just as happy about this development: they were hoping the journey would fix his reckless attitude of late. And really, he wished for the same precise thing.

But in Minas Tirith he had not seen her. Instead, they had almost immediately left for the southern part of the realm, and when they had made their way towards Pelargir, Éomer had wondered if he'd ever find a chance of seeking out the woman he called _Nihtegale _in the quiet of his thoughts.

And there was no telling if she even was there anymore, or if she had moved on... perhaps the fates were cruel and he'd not find her again.

In all this, the campaign in the south had been more than welcome. Waging war was an effective way of distracting oneself, and on a battle-field he was always able to forget about things outside it. Lord Faramir took part in this quest as well, and there were two princes from the city of Dol Amroth as well: those were the ruling Prince Imrahil himself and his son called Erchirion. Turned out they were kin to Lord Faramir, which was kind of obvious when one saw them together. All three were proud and valiant men, but Imrahil had a mood similar to the one Éomer had already perceived in Faramir before.

They had been victorious in the end, and with some subterfuge Lord Faramir had been able to lure out the pirates into an open battle on land. Only then had they revealed the presence of Rohirric riders, who had besieged the pirate troops, thus giving time for Prince Imrahil's men to charge the pirate ships. The Prince's forces were used to fighting on sea and against ships, so the dismantling of vessels was child's play for them.

Imrahil had then left for Mundburg, as he had some business there, but he had urged the Marshal and his men come after as quick as they could.

"Lord Steward is organising a ball a week from now. It's been quite a while since one was last seen in the White City, and it would be an honour to have Rohirric representation as well. Don't you think it would be a good chance to celebrate our victory in Pelargir?" Prince Imrahil had said and reluctantly Éomer had agreed. Only to Faramir he had confessed his doubts, especially since he didn't think he had anything proper for a real court gathering.

But the Steward's son had just waved his hand.

"I think my uncle's idea is brilliant. You should go, Lord Marshal, as we don't get too many opportunities to mingle in each others' societies. It would do good for the relations between the two realms. And don't worry about clothing – just go and talk with my brother once you get to Minas Tirith. He'll help you find out something fitting", Faramir had told him. After that, there really was no way he could say no, and with an uneasy heart he had turned northwards with his men. Faramir and Prince Erchirion stayed behind to tend to the backwash of the battle.

In the end they arrived on the morning of that day when the ball was supposed to take place, and quietly Éomer had hoped it would be too late to find proper ball clothing, but Boromir was apparently ingenious enough to help him out. It turned out he had one coat that was a bit too large for the man himself but it fit the young Marshal perfectly, and in the end he was standing in his chamber, bathed and polished and dressed like a Gondorian nobleman.

The coat's shade was purple so dark it almost looked black, with golden embroidery about the neck and sleeves. It felt alien, as his preferred colour was green, and it was grander than anything Éomer had ever worn in his life. When he looked at his reflection, he felt like a man who had stolen the King's clothes and now posed as him.

Then someone knocked at the door, and Boromir's voice called: "My lord, may I come in?"

"Of course", answered Éomer, and the older man made way inside. There was a friendly smile on the face of the Captain as he looked at the Marshal from head to toe.

"It looks wonderful. I knew it would be your size, Lord Marshal", he complimented, looking a bit like he had himself sewn the garment. Boromir grinned, "I'm even thinking here perhaps I should gift you with this coat."

"I fear I would have to reject it, Captain, generous as it would be. If I made an appearance in Rohan wearing this, no one would ever take me seriously again. The Rohirrim have strange ideas about men and their clothing", Éomer said, trying for a light tone. Boromir laughed.

"Oh, I did not realise that. Well, you're always welcome to borrow it when you visit our city", he said. Gingerly he lifted a hand, "My lord, may I fix the collar? It looks a bit awkward."

"Go ahead, Captain", said the Marshal, and the Steward's son busied himself with arranging the coat's collar.

"I fear this is an inevitable part of being a high-born man in Gondor. We are quite fond of our frilly feathers", he said good-humouredly.

"Perhaps both our peoples could learn something of each other", suggested Éomer.

"You're quite right, I deem. For one, the fearless spirit of your people is something we need right now", Boromir said and an edge appeared in his voice; it was not hard to guess that the same shadows that increasingly unsettled the young Marshal were worrying the Captain.

"I must confess, I do not feel so fearless at the moment. After all, it is the first time I attend to a Gondorian court gathering", Éomer said uneasily. It brought the good cheer back to the older man's face, and he gave the Rohir a friendly pat on the shoulder.

"Don't worry about it. You're not going to be devoured out there. I should imagine everyone is excited to meet you, as we don't get Rohirric guests here so often", he comforted the Marshal. "Perhaps I should introduce you to my little cousin – she'd take good care of you."

"Your cousin?" Éomer asked gingerly. He had a vague memory of Faramir mentioning he might intimidate her. Clearly the two brothers had a very different idea of this cousin of theirs.

"Princess Lothíriel, who is daughter to Prince Imrahil. You met him in south, didn't you? She mostly stays here in Minas Tirith and she can't really be called a court butterfly, but no one has a more extensive knowledge of the books in this city than she does", Boromir said. He grinned, "Just tell her about Rohan, and she'll be asking you for more stories for the rest of the night."

"Ah, yes", said the young Marshal. He was already more than little worried how this evening would turn out.

"Now, are you ready, Lord Marshal?" asked Boromir.

"I'm not going to get any readier than this, Captain", said Éomer with a weak little smile. It appeared to amuse the older man, and then they began the way for the Great Hall of Feasts.

* * *

The hall of Merethrond was already filling with guests when Lothíriel arrived by the side of her father. It had been years since she had attended a feast here, but she could right away tell the crowd was not what it used to be in years of old.

Still, as she gazed about herself, Lothíriel briefly felt the urge to turn around and run back home. But that was not what she could do, and so she glanced at her father beside her. He gave her a gentle little smile.

"Everything all right?" he asked softly.

"I'm fine. Just a bit nervous", she answered.

"It's going to be wonderful, I promise. There's even one special guest from Rohan", he said.

"From Rohan?" Lothíriel asked quickly, trying to mask her surprise. Evidently he didn't notice it as he didn't look like her tone sounded odd to him.

"Yes. You know those Rohirrim who came here at your uncle's request? They returned earlier today, and the man leading them – Marshal Éomer – is here tonight. I should think he would be glad to tell you of his land", Father said. She nodded quietly as they made way inside, but to herself the princess was wondering if she could at some point sneak out and try to find _him. _Perhaps he was here somewhere, in the barracks waiting for his lord's commands. It was somehow painful to know he could very well be so close, and it was unlikely he had any idea she was here now... oh, what would she give for one moment with him!

But those thoughts had to be put aside, for Father then introduced to her to some friends of his, and she had to concentrate on being sociable. What followed seemed like an endless parade of faces and names, half of which she wasn't sure she'd remember afterwards.

Eventually they stopped by two young men.

"Daughter, here are the Lords Galdegir and Olthor. My lords, this is Princess Lothíriel my daughter", he introduced them, and she curtsied at the two noblemen. Judging by their looks, they had to be cousins at least. Both had same dark brown hair that had a tendency to curl. The shorter of the two had brown eyes as well, but the other's greater share of Númenorian blood was evidenced by his taller build and grey eyes, which were very bright. Good-looking they both were, and dressed as finely you would expect only a nobleman of Gondor to dress.

"It is a pleasure to meet you, my lady. I'm Galdegir, and this is my cousin", said the tall one as he graciously picked up her hand for a kiss. He seemed something of a flirter.

"Pleasure is all mine", said Lothíriel. She gave him a polite smile, but hoped he wouldn't make too much out of it.

"How fares your mother Lady Saeriel, Lord Olthor?" Father asked.

"Not too well lately, Lord Prince. She did not take Father's passing too lightly", said the young man and shook his head.

"I'm sad to hear that. I'd have you give her my regards when you see her", said the Prince.

"That I will, my lord", Olthor answered.

"Lady Lothíriel, I must say I would not have recognised you had your lord father not introduced you. From our last meeting I seem to recall a gangly girl who was all knees and elbows", Galdegir said, his eyes fixed on the princess. Perhaps Elbereth was smiling on her somewhere, as she didn't blush.

"Well, I don't take part in gatherings that often, my lord. And these days it doesn't usually even seem like there is a cause for celebration", she answered gingerly.

"Quite the opposite, Lady Princess. It is in the times like these that the life itself should be celebrated and honoured, for a day may come very soon that none of us are here to enjoy it anymore", said Galdegir and sipped his wine. "Life is a gift that should be revelled before it is too late."

"My cousin here has the right of it", Olthor put in, evidently reluctant to let his kinsman have all the spotlight. "Especially ladies as beautiful as yourself should not be locked away in the fading of the light."

"My lord, you should not imply my father here has kept me locked somewhere. I'm just not the most sociable kind", Lothíriel answered. She had to fight in order not to let her smile turn tight.

"Is there such a thing as an unsociable young lady?" Galdegir asked, which made his cousin laugh; the princess let out an awkward little laugh too. "I must say, such thing is something I have not encountered before!"

"Lords, I must confess I sometimes suspect my daughter prefers the company of the books over people", Father said, apparently oblivious to her discomfort. His words had the two cousins laughing, but Lothíriel watched their faces closely and judging by the look in Galdegir's eyes she felt that if she was to wed this young man his first act as her husband would be to take away her books. The thought made her feel unwell, but she was able to mask her thoughts.

"Well, usually books articulate and explain themselves more reasonably than most people", she said lightly.

"You need to meet more people and less books, my lady", said Galdegir. Now it was obvious: in his household, she'd never have a book to read.

"Perhaps you could sometimes suggest me some favourites of yours, Princess? If what you say is true, I truly need to read more", said Olthor for his part.

"Of course. That would be my pleasure", Lothíriel said and smiled at him. It was genuine this time.

She cast a glance at her father, "Father, you said you knew Lord Olthor's mother?"

"Indeed I did. She often stayed in the court of Dol Amroth when she was young. I suppose we were something like childhood sweethearts. But then Lord Olthor's father came along, and I fear I was presented with rejection", he answered with a fond little smile.

"I do not suppose I should be telling this, but whenever my mother was cross with my father, she'd scream quite loudly that she chose him over the Prince of Dol Amroth, so he best behave according to it. But in the end she did love him very much", Olthor said, which made the Prince and Lothíriel laugh.

"Yes, your lady mother did have a very impressive voice", said Father. He looked like he'd have said something more, but then Galdegir spoke out again, evidently displeased for being left out of the conversation for so long. He fixed his eyes on the princess.

"My lady, I was here wondering if the books are all you spend your time with. Surely a lady so accomplished must have other hobbies as well?" he asked.

"I like riding, my lord. But I don't have a horse of my own", she said softly.

"Something I've been thinking of redeeming. A horsewoman as good as you ought to have steed of her own", Father commented.

"Really?" she asked in delight.

"Yes, dear daughter. I know how much you love your riding trips, and Faramir tells me you've taken most wonderful care of his horse", he said, smiling softly at her. Had they not been on the front of the court she'd have hugged him tight right there.

"Thank you, Father!" Lothíriel said happily, making a mental note of having to shower him with kisses and hugs later.

"You care for your cousin's horse, Lady Princess? And you approve of it, Prince Imrahil?" Galdegir asked. He did not seem too impressed by these news. Now there was another thing he'd forbid as her husband.

"Why shouldn't I? It is a useful skill for one to master, to care for one's horse. And if you asked Lord Éomer of Rohan, who is present tonight, he'd probably tell you even the infants in his land know how to handle horses", Father said calmly.

"That sounds very fascinating. I must seek out this quaint fellow... Lord Éomer you called him?" said Galdegir, though to the princess it did not really sound like he wanted to have anything to do with any man of Rohan. And to call him quaint! Oh, if _he _had heard, he'd no doubt make Galdegir regret those words.

But Galdegir was not quite done yet for the night. He looked at Father, "My lord, I was hoping to ask whether I would be allowed to walk with your daughter for a bit."

"Of course, if Lothíriel herself wills it", said the Prince, and she had to fight an urge to say that _no, _she did not will it. That would have been poor behaviour however, and so she answered the man's smile and placed her hand on his arm.

"As I said, you are very beautiful tonight, my lady. I truly did have hard time believing it was you, seeing how you have changed since the last time we met", said Galdegir as they slowly strolled through the crowd.

"I just happen to have a good handmaiden, is all", Lothíriel said softly. To herself she wondered if there was any way she could have used for an escape.

"Anyone may be an artist but if the raw material is not prime, then the result is not going to be too extraordinary either", he said and smiled charmingly at the princess. She was able to answer that smile, if a bit weakly.

"Would you like some wine, my lady?" he asked then.

"Perhaps a little bit. I don't usually drink it", she agreed, and they turned towards where the refreshments were served. Lothíriel waited by when he got the drinks, which took longer than she'd have thought, but eventually he returned to her with a glass in each hand. She accepted the offered glass with thanks and took a sip; it was red wine instead of her preferred white, and the taste was heavy and somehow stuffy on her tongue.

"How do you like it?" asked Galdegir.

"It's good. Usually, I pass it however. Father doesn't like me drinking too much", she answered.

"If you allow such an observation, that father of yours does seem to lock you up too much, my lady", he said. A slight frown had come to his face. Lothíriel took another sip of wine, if only to try and come up with a proper thing to say.

"He's my father. He knows what is the best for me", she said carefully.

"But with all due respect, you're not a child anymore, Princess", Galdegir pointed out.

"No. I'm not", Lothíriel answered softly. The man did have a point, to be honest.

"You should live a little, my lady. Life is not just books or attending to an overbearing parent", he told her. It was a good thing – at least for him – that Father was not hearing this conversation. Otherwise all interaction would have very quickly ended... which just might prove Galdegir right in another way.

"I am happy as it is", she said, not really sure if she liked this topic. Her head felt heavy and she sipped her drink again to clear it.

"Is that actually true, my lady? If you mind me asking? You don't seem very happy to me at least", noted the nobleman. He was watching her very closely and something about it unsettled her a bit.

"My lord, I'm not sure we know each other well enough to be having this conversation", she said. The wine didn't help at all: the heaviness in her head was starting to turn into dizziness.

"Of course. I beg your pardon", Galdegir said hurriedly. He frowned, "You don't seem too well, my lady. Perhaps we should go out for a bit, get you some fresh air?"

"I..." she mumbled, not clear-headed enough to really form any coherent sentence. He appeared to think that warranted him taking action, and firmly he began to lead her towards the doors that led into the garden.

How he got her out and all the way to the other side of the garden where he sat her down on a bench, Lothíriel wasn't so sure. Colours flashed in her eyes and though her mouth tried to form the word _"Father" _she couldn't get out even a whimper. It helped a little when Galdegir sat her down and the spinning in her head subsided slightly, but the princess still felt very unwell and dizzy.

"Let us sit here for a while. You'll feel better in a moment", he promised. He smiled indulgently, "Perhaps your father is not so wrong after all when he tells you not to drink."

"Mm", was all she could muster. She wished she could have laid herself down here and perhaps slept... for hours, preferably.

"Lady Lothíriel... you are radiant as a star", Galdegir murmured then. She thought of telling him that was absurd, considering her current state. But that would have required too many words.

"T-thank you", she mumbled.

"It's not just a flatter. I mean every word. And tonight I find myself completely captivated by your beauty and charm... Princess, I do not believe it is a coincidence we met tonight. No, it is far more than that. I would call it destiny..." he said and went on ranting about things like she'd have expected a knight to blurt out in one of Cuileth's beloved romances... she didn't listen to him but instead concentrated on not throwing up on him. If only she had been able to speak or shout, and she could have called for Father or Amrothos!

Her line of thought was disrupted, for Galdegir's hand was now on her chin, and he turned her face towards himself.

"... and I know you feel the same. Please, tell me yes", he murmured, but she had no idea what he wanted her to agree to.

"Um", Lothíriel managed.

"Please", he breathed, and now he was close, and suddenly his lips were on hers, _and just what in the name of Great Eru was this, _she didn't remember telling him he could kiss her_... _

She tried to pull back but he wouldn't let her go. Lothíriel gasped and he took the opportunity, and his mouth tasted like wine... in her panic, she bit him in his tongue.

Galdegir cried out in pain and pulled back. His eyes were wide with shock.

"You bit me! Why did you do that!" he demanded to know.

"Let me go", she mumbled. But he grabbed her by shoulders and she couldn't shake off his hands.

"Please, my lady, I only meant-" he tried.

"Let me go!" Lothíriel exclaimed now.

"Princess-" he started... but then, _he _came.

He appeared from the shadowy evening like a charging lion. Galdegir did not even have a chance of reacting before he was torn away from her and tossed aside like he was nothing more than a rag doll. He yelped and more or less flew into a bush, and Lothíriel thought she'd burst in tears, for her Rider was here; he had come back to her beyond all hope, right on the moment she had most needed him. And there he stood in between her and Galdegir, his tall figure tense as though a great cat preparing for the killing strike.

"The Lady said no", he said, his voice cold and loud, "and I was under the impression that Gondorian noblemen have respect for such thing."

"How dare you! Don't you know who I am, you savage?" Galdegir exclaimed as he climbed up on his feet.

"I don't know and I don't care. Now get you gone, or I will have your hide in a true savage fashion", said the Rider in an unaffected air fit for a king. Galdegir fumed but he seemed to understand this opponent was beyond him. He spat on the ground and turned, striding away from the scene.

The Rohir stood there until Galdegir was gone, but then he abruptly turned towards Lothíriel. He fell on one knee before her and searched her face with concerned eyes.

"_Nihtegale, _are you all right? Did he hurt you?" he asked.

"I... I'm not feeling so good", she mumbled, hating herself for ruining this reunion like so; she ought to have thrown herself into his arms and sobbed her thanks and told him how she had missed him...

He took note of the glass beside her on the bench and carefully smelled it. Evidently he didn't like the scent, for he wrinkled his nose and poured the rest of it into a bush. Then he looked at her again and concern returned into his eyes.

"Lady, I know this is not pleasant but I would have you empty your stomach of whatever it was he put in your drink. Can you do that?" he asked.

"Yes. If you help me", Lothíriel uttered. Actually, the idea of retching did seem very tempting.

"Of course. Now, may I lift you up? I don't think this is the best place for vomiting", he said then. His eyes were still intently fixed on her, as if he expected her to disappear.

"You may", answered the princess. Wasting no time, he got up on his feet and lifted her from the bench. She liked how that felt, how effortlessly he carried her... how safe she felt there. _He had come back. _

He found them a shadowy corner nearby, and as soon as she was on her knees and he held back her hair, Lothíriel retched. It wasn't too hard to do that, as the memory of Galdegir forcing his tongue into her mouth very much helped. Once she was done and the wine was out, she felt a bit better, though there was still heaviness in her head. The Rider helped her up on her feet, but kept an arm around her; she knew it was because he feared she might fall, but she welcomed it.

"Do you still feel ill?" he asked.

"A little bit. But it's not so bad anymore. I think I'll live", Lothíriel answered. She gave him a smile, "Thank you. I don't know how I'd have gotten rid of him alone."

"Don't mention it", he answered gently. And the way he looked at her, with so much tenderness in his dark eyes, like she was the most precious thing on earth... it all came to her then, those months of yearning and thinking she'd not set eyes on him again...

A moan escaped her mouth and she threw her arms about him, though the sudden movement did nothing for her feeling of dizziness. But he caught her and pulled her close, _he was there, _and she knew she would never be able to let go.

"I missed you", she mumbled into his shoulder, weak with the relief that was seeing him again and having him so close.

"Likewise", he answered quietly. "And you should know that I have died every day of this past year because of not seeing you."

"If only you knew how I've regretted not telling you yes when you asked me to come with you... I should have followed you", she told him and looked up, drinking in the sight of him.

"I'm here now", said the Rohir softly.

"You asked for a name", said the princess then. What reason was there for secrecy now? "It's Lothíriel. My name is Lothíriel."

"Lothíriel, daughter of Imrahil?" he asked with some surprise.

She looked up, "You know my father?"

"I have met him. We fought pirates together in south", he answered, watching her with slight frown, "and now I understand why you said your father would not allow this."

"Maybe he'll change his mind", she said weakly.

"Yes", he agreed and sudden hope came to his face, "I am a Marshal of the Mark now. It means I am one of the King's chief lieutenants and a warden of the eastern lands of Rohan. I could provide for you, the way I would not have been able before. I... it is probably very small compared to what you're used to, but you would be one of the highest ladies in the land, and there is nothing I would not do to make you happy."

"Dearest heart", she said softly, "I would have come with you even when I thought you were but an ordinary Rider."

But then she remembered something her father had said, and her brow furrowed, "You said you're Marshal? Are you... is your name Éomer?"

"It is. How did you know?" he asked, tracing her cheek with his free hand.

"Father mentioned it before. And here I thought you were just an ordinary rider!" Lothíriel said. _Perhaps there was a chance for them... _

She'd have said more, but then there was a shout: "Lothíriel! Lothíriel!"

It was her father, and there was no mistaking the panic in his voice. The princess was disappointed that the reunion had to come to an end so soon, but she couldn't just hide in the garden with her Marshal either, not when Father sounded so worried.

"She's here, my lord!" Éomer called in a strong voice. Carefully he started to escort her towards where Imrahil's voice had come from.

Father came half-running towards them, and instantly at the sight of the two he frowned in anger.

"Take your hands off my daughter!" he exclaimed.

"It's all right – he was helping – I'm not really-" Lothíriel tried, but then Father was there and he more or less grabbed her from the Marshal's sheltering arms.

"I'm sorry, my lord. I did not mean to overstep any lines. I was-" said the tall man, but Father didn't seem too eager to listen.

"Spare me your excuses, Lord Éomer! You may rest assured that Steward Denethor will hear about this, and your own king!" he ranted angrily.

"Father", Lothíriel called him then, using one of those low tones that weren't so loud but always caught his attention. He looked at her sharply.

"It is very unfitting of you to reprimand a man who just assisted me. Lord Éomer here", - oh, what bliss it was to say that name! - "came across me when I was in some distress. I'm not feeling too well – he was just helping me to stay upright."

Father blinked and only then did he seem to take a proper look at her. She knew she couldn't be too fresh a sight after being effectively drugged and then emptying most of the contents of her stomach in the garden. The Prince's expression first became soft and then embarrassed. He turned to look at the tall Rohir again.

"My apologies, Lord Marshal. One should not jump into conclusions like that – I ought to know you're an honourable man", he said, sounding abashed now.

"It is all right", said Éomer nonchalantly. But then a fierce frown appeared on his face, and made him look kind of scary, even though she knew it was not because her or her father. He said, "I would not say the same about a certain young man who was not showing your daughter every courtesy."

Father looked from the Marshal back to Lothíriel with some puzzlement.

"I'll explain everything when we get home, Father. I don't think this is the best place for it, lest you become angry", said the Princess tiredly.

"If you insist", he answered, though his expression implied the matter would be discussed very thoroughly.

He nodded his head towards the Rohir then, "I fear we must take our leave now. If my daughter is not well I should take her home. My thanks for your help, Lord Marshal."

"It was an honour", said the golden-haired man softly. Briefly his eyes rested on Lothíriel and she recognised the yearning look – she knew something similar must have been in her own eyes.

Now was the time to go, however, and she and Father turned around to return inside. But when they went, she cast a look over her shoulder and mouthed two words to the man she had thought not to see again.

"_Sunrise. Stables." _

* * *

**A/N:** Wild hearts remain wild as far as it goes for updating. Oh well, I believe it is well established by now that I am insane and sometimes I update like there was no tomorrow.

Éomer has now returned to Gondor and he has found Lothíriel. We'll see how this develops from here... I'm already snickering into my beard, because I'm having too much fun with this piece. I can also tell Galdegir will be making another appearance, and the consequences of his rather evil actions in this chapter will be discussed in the next chapter. But nasty as he is I don't think he's completely wrong about Imrahil.

I know I originally said there would be 5 chapters tops but by now it is obvious I can't possibly fit the whole story to just that. At the moment I'm thinking of 8 chapters or possibly 10. I suppose this doesn't really come as surprise to you.

* * *

Inspiration for the chapter: Thomas Bergersen - Nero

* * *

**Talia119 - **That's exactly what I thought. At that point he's convinced anyway he's not going to see Lothíriel again, so he tries what he can to forget her. But turns out she's just not forgettable, not to him.

**Kiiimberly - **I just love the idea that someone can stay with you like that, even if you've only seen little of each other.

**Le Pleiade - **Hopefully this chapter explains it a bit more. Lothíriel's sad mood is because of different things: feeling like she's not good enough, that she doesn't fit this world where she was born into, and having no place where she could truly felt at peace. Imrahil doesn't really help it, being the kind of parent he is to her. He doesn't realise it himself, though - he just loves his daughter too much. This will be discussed a bit later on, I think.

**not paranoid enough - **Good to hear that! :)


	5. Chapter 5

"_And here I have found what I sought not indeed, but finding I would possess for ever. For it is above all gold and silver, and beyond all jewels. Neither rock, nor steel, nor the fires of Morgoth, nor all the powers of the Elf-kingdoms, shall keep from me the treasure that I desire. For Lúthien your daughter is the fairest of all the Children of the World." _

- Of Beren and Lúthien

* * *

**Chapter 5**

Truth be told, Éomer had never thought to have such self-control as he exercised that night. He was not one to hold back his emotions or hide his feelings, but here in the front of the Gondorian court he simply couldn't act like his mind was somewhere far. Furthermore, he was fairly sure he was expected to speak with the other guests too, preferably in sentences longer than three words. At least that villain who had harassed _her _had evidently vanished.

Fortunately, Boromir seemed to have taken it upon himself to introduce him to the high and mighty of the land, and he forced himself to focus on these ladies and lords of Gondor... hard as it was to concentrate. For the thought of her, and finding her once again here were things he knew would consume his mind if he lowered his guard even for a moment.

Somehow, he was able to keep up the appearance of a cultivated fellow who did not harbour any improper attraction towards a certain lady, and as soon as he felt it was appropriate for him to retire, he excused himself. For one, it seemed like the quiet and privacy of his chamber was the best place for him to climb on the walls and lose his mind.

He did go kind of crazy indeed before the morning came. Endlessly he'd pace the room they had given o him, and think of her...

_Princess Lothíriel. _Of course she'd be nothing less than a princess. It did certainly explain her distress a year ago and her conviction that there was no chance for the two of them. But now, being here in the city and having again experienced the bliss that was holding her in his arms, he couldn't feel despair. He was a Marshal now, a Lord with more than just a name of great parents... surely Prince Imrahil would pay heed, especially if his daughter insisted she wanted such a union too?

He briefly thought of the man he had seen harassing her, and though the memory of him did make the Rohir bristle he also knew it was Prince Imrahil's right to deal with the man – altogether he doubted it would end too well if he had tried to meddle with the Gondorian execution of justice. Whoever that lord was he had not seem like much of a fighter, and the Prince would thoroughly take care of the matter once his daughter told him what had happened. Imrahil certainly did seem very protective of his daughter, and he would not suffer anyone harming her.

The young Marshal slept but briefly and fitfully that night, and eventually it turned towards morning. He was ready and out with sunrise: waiting for the hours between dusk and dawn had been some of the longest of his life.

_He'd see his _Nihtegale _again... no, not Nightingale, but Lothíriel. _

Few were up and about when Éomer made his way through the corridors and then the Citadel. There was no sleep or weariness in his eyes, not now when he was close to her. And his heart beat with an odd pace, anxious and slightly mad and it'd only know peace when she came. But she was not yet in the stables when he arrived, and in an attempt to stay calm he went over to his stallion. Firefoot snorted softly at the sight of him and almost looked like there was a knowing expression in his eyes.

"As if you could resist a beautiful lady", said the Marshal to his horse nonchalantly. He petted the animal's neck and muttered soft words in Rohirric, until suddenly a patter of light feet alarmed him. Éomer turned around, and about as soon as he did the Princess of Dol Amroth practically leaped on him in an embrace of all four limbs. One could have thought it had been a hundred years since their last meeting, but he didn't mind. He grabbed her and wondered if they could sneak out of the city this very night...

"You shouldn't charge on a warrior like that, dear one. I could have hurt you, thinking you an orc", he told her nonetheless.

"I'm sorry. I didn't think", she said breathlessly, "The sight of you just... you know."

"Oh, I do", he growled softly, and then he kissed her.

But she did not allow it to go on for long, and when she pulled back he had to force himself to calm down.

"We shouldn't stay here. The stable-hands are going to arrive any moment", she said, her voice coming out as a strange little squeak.

"Of course", he agreed, though thinking straight was not the easiest thing at the moment. However, he was able to put her down and let her lead the way.

It was the attic above the stables she lead him into. At the very back of the stables there was a ladder, which they climbed, and once there she closed the trap door behind them to shut out the noises from the stables. Up there was a narrow space above the stalls, dim and obviously quite unused for the most parts. However, it had all the privacy one could hope for, and it provided the quiet and peace this moment required.

Though Lothíriel looked like she was not suffering from any ill effects anymore, he felt the need to make sure she was all right after last night. So Éomer asked: "I hope you're not feeling sick this morning?"

"No, not at all. A good night's sleep was all I needed in the end", she said calmingly, settling to sit down beside him. He'd have pulled her in his arms, but he had to think soberly for now in order to clear out some things.

"And did you tell your father what happened before I came to you?" he asked.

"I did. He was rather angry... it was a good thing I insisted we go home before I told him anything", she answered. Now there was a slightly troubled look on her face.

"Will he get rid of that villain who harassed you?" Éomer wanted to know. Seeing how Prince Imrahil had reacted last night upon finding his daughter, he expected the man to go after the young lord by himself – perhaps use him as an orc bait.

However, Lothíriel sighed and shook her head.

"He'll demand an apology of course, but there's not much more he can do about Galdegir. You see, after my father Galdegir's family is one of the most powerful ones in the land, and his father is good friends with Lord Denethor. For all his power and might, my uncle has to tread carefully with the men of his standing... after all, though he is the Steward in this land, he's not the King and can't act like one. And Galdegir is his father's first-born son. That means a lot here in Gondor. I have a feeling that he'd deny everything if I accused him of putting something in my drink. It's not like I can prove it – he'd say I can't hold my wine or something like that. So there's not much that my father can do, except to make Galdegir apologise for taking liberties like that with me when I wasn't on my right mind", she explained resignedly. Her words made the young Marshal growl.

"What kind of justice is this? That vile men like him can assault young women like he did and go unpunished? And he called _me _savage!" he said angrily, hands becoming fists. If he came across that man again, he just might punch him... or worse.

"I know it's not right. But that's how it works when you are a high-born", Lothíriel sighed and shook her head.

"I could testify that he did drug you. I saw how you were and _that _was not drunkenness", he said angrily.

"Dearest, it's not going to change anything. If I know anything of how scheming some noblemen can be, Galdegir would somehow turn it on _you. _Accuse you of assaulting him when he was proposing to the lady... you must stay out of it", she told him, her voice sad and defeated.

"If you want, I can go and rough him up a little bit. Teach him what happens to men who ensnare unsuspecting women", he said darkly. The mere idea bought him a sense of grim satisfaction.

"No, you can't do that. You'd only cause trouble", she said quickly.

"I'm a Marshal of the Mark. What can he do, except take it to my uncle the King? Théoden would laugh at him and then congratulate me for showing that orc of a man just how cruel can be the North wind", Éomer answered unaffectedly.

"But then my uncle would be forced to take action. It might cause bad blood between our realms, considering you're both men of high standing. And Uncle could forbid you from ever returning, and we wouldn't see each other again... please, you mustn't do anything, no matter how wrong it is. I don't want you to get into trouble because of me..." Lothíriel said quickly. She reached for his hand, and the touch of her fingers had him relenting. The Marshal sighed and covered her hand with his.

"All right. I won't touch him. But if he ever again tries to harm you... then I will not promise I won't murder him", he said in a low, dark voice. He looked at her, softer this time, "Just stay away from him, will you?"

"Of course. He won't fool me again, and I definitely know now not to take anything from his hand... and Father is here too – he'll know to keep an eye on Galdegir as well", Lothíriel said calmingly. She smiled, "And if he tries something, he'll find a hairpin in a place where it hurts the most."

"Oh, you precious woman", he murmured, and then it became impossible not to hold her; he pulled her in his arms. "How I love you."

"You do?" she asked a bit breathlessly, her face only inches from his now as she settled in his lap.

"Aye. From the moment I first laid eyes on you I have loved you", Éomer answered. "You should know that I have dreamt of this moment ever since the night I last saw you. So I may be a little bit mad. You must tell me if I scare you."

That made her smile.

"To be honest, I do not think you're the only mad person here", she told him softly.

"You're very lovely for a madwoman", he said, and then he couldn't hold himself back anymore, but brought his head down, and eagerly her lips met his. What bliss!

The kiss went on for long and ranged between tender and insane. Had the young Marshal died then, he'd have gone down a blissful man, for she was everything that he had dreamt of ever since she had fled from his arms a year ago now; in her kiss was all the fire that he remembered.

But after a while she pulled back, flushed and short of breath and her eyes shone, and Béma, he'd die if he couldn't have her.

"I can't stay for much longer", she said hoarsely, "My father and brother will be up soon, and expect to see me at breakfast."

"Don't go yet", he murmured and sought the lines of her mouth, though he knew he ought to not hold her back.

"I wouldn't if it was just me", she answered, her fingers tightly woven in his thick mane. "But I have to."

He groaned and kissed her again, and she let him do it.

"Come today to my father's house. Ask for my hand in marriage", she whispered, resting her forehead against his. "I want you. And I want you to have me."

"Yes. Yes", he agreed, breathing in her scent, her desire, breathing in _her... _

"You have to let me go now", she told him then, but for a little while more he held her tighter, though he knew she was right.

"I'll see you soon", he promised.

And the only reason he was able to let go of her was the dream that perhaps there was a chance for them.

* * *

"What is it with you today, daughter?" asked Father later on that morning, after she had returned and tried to make herself look like she had not spent some very passionate moments in the attic at the stables. Amrothos had already gone: apparently he was hoping to catch one of the Rohirrim for a sparring session, as he was curious as to their skills in swordsmanship. So, Lothíriel was left with their father enjoying a lengthy breakfast as the golden light of sun flooded in.

"Mm? What?" she asked absent-mindedly. She had been fully absorbed by her thoughts, all of which consisted of a certain Marshal.

"Lothíriel, have you heard anything I've said you today? And you seem pale and tired. Are you still sick?" Father demanded now. At last she realised she had behaved rather badly, and gave him a smile.

"It's all right, Father. I'm fine, really", she said. Very fine she was in fact, and she couldn't hold back a happy little grin.

"Well, I must say I didn't expect to find you so happy today after what happened last night", he said warily.

"Oh, not all of my night was so bad in the end", she said, her smile widening.

Father studied her face intently and leaned forwards on his seat.

"Perhaps this is an unpleasant topic after what happened that young villain, but I was wondering... you remember what we talked back in Dol Amroth about this ball? I suggested you take a look around in the court and see if there's anyone you like", he said then. Again Lothíriel smiled, now more dreamily.

"I remember, Father", she said softly. "And I did see someone. He's the reason I'm feeling so good."

That at last made him smile and his posture relaxed. Father reached for her hand and squeezed it gently.

"Well, would you like to tell me who he is?" he asked.

"It's... Father, he's someone very special. And I like him very much. He likes me too..." Lothíriel began carefully. She knew she had to break this to him gently.

"What is it, daughter?" asked Father, evidently having realised there was something more going on.

"I asked him to come here today. There is something he'd like to speak of with you, Father", she said softly. He immediately picked up her meaning, and his eyes widened in surprise.

"You mean to say a man is coming here to ask for your hand in marriage", Father said very evenly.

"Yes. I have already told him yes", Lothíriel said. She had to bite her tongue in order not to giggle like a maniac.

The Prince leaned back in his chair and studied her as if she had suddenly revealed she was in fact Isildur's Heir in disguise. For the longest moment, Father said nothing, but when he spoke he sounded calm.

"Lothíriel, when I first made the suggestion about the ball I didn't mean you needed to make up your mind right away. What I intended was for you to take a look around if there was anyone you liked, and then get to know him a bit better. Didn't we also agree that you are too young to be married yet?" he said at last. His words sobered her mood a bit, though nothing really could now dampen her good mood.

"Father, I know that. And if you think we should wait, then that's what we'll do. But I know it's him. _I know. _I may be young but some things are certain, and he's one of those things", she said softly, gathering her father's hands in her own. "He's... the last night was not the first time I saw him. I've met him before, and I've thought so much of him since then. And last night I knew for sure, if I never did before."

"Who is this man, daughter?" he asked.

"Marshal Éomer of Rohan", Lothíriel answered, pronouncing the syllables of that beloved name with care.

The look of astonishment returned the face of her father. He blinked once, and then twice. His expression implied he'd have thought to hear any other name than the one she had given.

"Marshal Éomer", Father repeated. He rubbed his forehead and looked completely helpless, "What is this, Lothíriel? How have you met him before?"

"He was here a year ago, the last time when Uncle asked riders from Rohan. One evening I came from a ride and met him in the stables and... we started to talk, and I instantly liked him. But then he left the city because he was needed in his own land. I never forgot about him, though... and last night, when I saw him again, I knew why that was. Most importantly, he feels the same", she explained, thinking it better if Father didn't know just how far her relations with Éomer had already gone.

"Was it true, what you told me last night about Lord Galdegir? Not just an excuse to cover up for some amorous encounter with the Marshal?" Father asked, narrowing his eyes. It was now Lothíriel's turn to blink in surprise.

"Of course it is true! Father, what do you think of me to even suggest that? Galdegir did exactly what I told you, and I was only delivered from that situation by Éomer. He came and scared Galdegir away", she said. He seemed to recognise the truth of that statement and he nodded. For a moment, he sat silent and thoughtful.

"All right. I will hear out this man, but I make no promises", he said at last slowly, "And I must wonder about this sudden change of heart. Didn't you tell me you don't want to get married?"

"It's not sudden, really. I only said that because of _him – _because I thought he was but an ordinary rider, and you'd never give your consent. That's why I never spoke of him before now. But he's a Marshal! A mighty lord in his land, Father", Lothíriel said eagerly, wishing for him to see how important this was for her.

"I know he's counted among the highest nobility of Rohan. But I will have to think about this, daughter... I can't give you away to just any man", he said and sighed. Suddenly, he seemed somehow much older than he actually was.

"He's not just any man. He's... he's something I've never seen before", Lothíriel insisted. Father gave her a pensive look from under his eyebrows.

"It'd be a lie to say I'm not surprised. I've never seen you behaving or talking like this... but daughter, you must keep your head cool. A marriage is not something you can just purchase like a new book and then put aside when you're done with it. If what you wish would really take place, you'd have to leave behind all that you've known – live in a strange country far away from your family. And there is no telling how you'd be received there..." he said, sounding a bit tired.

"Father, I'm not saying any of this just from the top of my mind. I've thought of this a lot during the past year, and I know already that marriage is a life-long commitment. But I'd have done it even if Lord Éomer was not a Marshal – I'd make that sacrifice and be happy with it", she said emphatically.

Her father did not say anything to that. He nodded silently and stared down at the plates before him, his brow slightly furrowed. Lothíriel had no idea if that was good or a bad sign.

While they had talked, the morning had already grown old, and it was not wrong to say that outside it was full day already. It was kind of strange to realise that this time yesterday she had been panicking about the ball... and now she was so full of hope.

Father straightened up on his seat and looked like he'd have said something, but then a servant appeared at the door of the dining chamber.

"My lord, Marshal Éomer of Rohan is here. He is asking for an audience."

* * *

He had been on the edge the whole morning, ever since Lothíriel had disappeared from his sight and he had been left to try and get a grip of himself. The memory of her lips and her body in his arms had left Éomer's head spinning, and he suspected he had much resembled a drunken man when he had made his way back to the palace. There, he had gotten himself as presentable as it was possible in the situation. The problem had instantly made itself clear: he had nothing proper to put on for the audience, as appearing armoured on Prince Imrahil's threshold was not an option and his clothes were otherwise rather plain. But he wasn't pompous enough to don on Boromir's borrowed coat... and yet it felt wrong to make this visit looking like he did – to the great, wealthy Prince it would probably seem like a beggar had come to ask for the hand of his daughter.

It couldn't be helped, though. And anyway one shouldn't pretend to be something one was not, especially when something so important was at hand. Really, it felt like he was about to do the most important thing in his whole life.

Around midday he deemed it was the right time, and by then he was too anxious to wait for longer in any case. There was a tightness in his chest, the kind he had not known before. And as he made way out, his stride turned faster with each step and almost became a proper run. Some inquiries in the palace had affirmed where he'd find the house of Prince Imrahil; like the other high nobility, he had a town house not far from the Citadel itself. Éomer himself had observed that the higher in the city one lived, the more important he was.

The house of Princes of Dol Amroth was something of a palace itself and made the young Marshal feel more than just a little self-conscious. Compared to this fine place, Aldburg was nothing but a barn. He could but wonder how the castle by the sea was, and quickly decided he'd rather not imagine it. He reminded himself: a man's worth was not measured by where he had been born nor by the grandeur of his home.

The time it took to announce himself and his intentions and to wait for the Prince to arrive was probably the most excruciating moment of his life. Had minutes ever dragged like they did now? He was sure it wasn't so. But at last Prince Imrahil appeared, and though he was trying to keep his face void of expressions, his eyes instantly fell on Éomer and the younger man felt like he was scrutinised and measured very carefully.

"Lord Éomer", greeted the Prince, "If you'd follow me."

"Of course", answered the Marshal, and silently strode after him as he made way to what looked like a parlour. It was a spacious, airy room and furnished with elegant pieces made of light wood. It was very clear that this place belonged to someone of great wealth and high standing. He came to a halt then and stood quietly, waiting for the Prince to speak first.

The older man turned to look at him, still wearing that same look that tried to drill through his skull.

"My daughter tells me you have come here to ask for her hand in marriage", Imrahil said, going straight to the business. Well, Éomer had expected nothing less. The matter of Lothíriel was not something either of them wanted to beat around the bush.

"Aye. That is true", said the Marshal in a clear, steady voice. "I tried to think of all the wonderful things I should tell you, my lord, but I'm not a man of many frivolous words. And Lothíriel your daughter is more fair than all the words I know. The simple truth is that I love her beyond anything in this world. Perhaps it is not wrong to say that I have not known her long enough, or that there are still things I should learn about her. For that reason I ask for your permission to court her – but with the clear intention that I wish for her to be my wife."

Prince Imrahil did not answer right away, nor did his face betray his thoughts. He stood silent, regarding the Rohir as he thought of his words. Eventually, he let out something that sounded like a sigh, and he turned towards the window.

"What is a Marshal exactly in your land? Could you provide for her?" asked the Prince.

"I am one of the King's lieutenants. I guard the eastern marches of the realm. And my seat is in Aldburg, which after Edoras is the most important settlement in the Mark. I will not lie: the life I could offer her is not the same she has here, and I acknowledge I'm not sophisticated and learned like she is. But what I believe is the important thing is that I would love and cherish her beyond all material wealth in this world", said Éomer.

"And why is it that you love her, Lord Marshal?" he asked.

"Because she is the loveliest, gentlest thing I've ever known. Because she is in my mind always, day and night. And because she trusts me with her heart, and what moves in it", said Éomer softly. Speaking those words out loud somehow loosened the tightness in his chest... as if she had been here herself and placed her small hand in his.

The Prince sharply looked at him. In his eyes, grey like hers, there were things the young Marshal did not quite understand. But he answered that look calmly and felt he had said the right thing; somehow, it made him feel more confident.

However, Prince Imrahil sighed and a frown came to his face.

"I can see that you are honest, my lord", he said at length, folding his hands behind his back, "and I do not doubt you speak these words from the bottom of your heart. Perhaps your infatuation is real."

At that the Marshal grit his teeth, though he didn't speak. Instead, he remained quiet and waited for the older man to continue.

"And my daughter seems just as taken with you. It is a novel thing, as I have not seen any man befuddle her so like this before, but I suppose she has finally reached that age... she is young, however and perhaps not too level-headed in this matter. The events of last night prove it at least, considering what almost happened to her. Naturally I am thankful that you happened to be there and chased away that little devil. But it's not enough."

Prince Imrahil fixed his eyes on Éomer, and when he spoke his voice was very calm, "Lothíriel is too young for marriage, and also to understand what it would mean if she became your wife. And she is far too precious for me to give away like that. I don't sell my beloved ones to anyone just like that."

"But my lord-" Éomer tried, but the Prince lifted up his hand to interrupt him.

"If you were a Gondorian, then perhaps something could be arranged in a few years. However, you're a practical stranger, and what I know of your people doesn't encourage me to give her to you. You Rohirrim are wild, which is probably all very well for yourselves, but it is different here in Gondor. And you may very well be a lord in your land but it is not enough", said Imrahil, his voice rising higher and more unforgiving now.

"I am sorry, Lord Marshal, but _you _are not enough. You're not worthy of my daughter."

"Don't you think Lothíriel herself should be the judge of that?" Éomer asked. It was a wonder that he could keep his voice so steady, so void of any emotion.

"She wouldn't judge with her mind, but with her heart", said the Prince unaffectedly.

"Are you then saying _you _are not judging with your heart?" asked the Marshal before he could hold back his tongue. And as he could very well have expected, his words made Imrahil's eyes flash in a way that promised nothing good for his plea.

"That is enough. I will not hear more", he snapped, his form instantly tensing as if he thought a battle would commence. "I will not give you my consent – you can't have my daughter. This is my final word. Now, I'd like you to leave this house, and not look back."

Éomer let out a sigh, long and heavy and defeated. His shoulders fell and he felt diminished.

_He should have known. _These uptight Gondorians regarded Eorlingas nothing more but a bunch of howling brutes... and they'd never suffer giving their daughters to wives. It had been foolish to dare to hope for more.

"Very well", he said quietly, but didn't turn to leave quite yet. He searched Imrahil's eyes, "May I at least bid her farewell?"

"No. You have said more than enough, Lord Marshal", Imrahil said coldly.

"Fine. At least I will not have to be there to see her heart break", said the Rohir, and then he turned, and like Imrahil had said he never looked back.

* * *

He wasn't sure how he made the way back to the Citadel. It was like someone else was controlling and moving him, and his eyes were blurry with what he knew to be tears of anger and disappointment.

_You're not worthy of my daughter._

Those cruel words echoed through his mind, time and again. And what pain and fury they caused!

_So, men like Galdegir are worthy of her then?!_

It was wrong, all wrong. It wasn't supposed to go like this... even if Lothíriel had known from the beginning that her father would never let her marry a man of _Rohan. She had known, and she had tried to shelter them from the pain that was forbidden love. And yet he had ran blindly towards it, grasping at that light which was not for the likes of him.

_A barbarian, a savage of the north, a defiler of daughters of kings... _

In his room, a great feeling of weariness came to him and he fell down to sit. What a fool he had been to dare and hope... and now what chance was there of seeing her again? No, Imrahil would not let him even lay eyes on her again! And his sweet little _Nihtegale _would return to her gilded cage, until that sadness he had seen in her eyes already a year ago would consume her...

He buried his face in his hands and tried to wish away his despair, tried to see some way around this. But all he saw was his own despair and a bitter road that lead away from the princess who had captured his heart...

It felt like he sat there for hours, and outside the light of day waned. He missed no food or rest – only the sound of her voice, telling him it had all been a misunderstanding. But eventually a knock on the door awoke him, and heavily the young Marshal got up on his feet.

At the door, a servant waited. He said: "The Steward asks for your presence, my lord."

"Of course", said Éomer and followed the messenger to the study of Lord Denethor of Gondor. Vaguely he remembered the first time he had walked these hallways and stepped into the study from where the Steward ruled the realm. He remembered feeling awe and wonder, but now all that he experienced was loathing and hatred for this place made of stone and cold men.

The Steward stood gazing out of the window when the Marshal entered. Walking from his chamber had allowed him enough of time to compose himself, and now as the Lord Denethor turned to look him Éomer knew the older man saw only that trademark frown on his face that could mean so many things.

"You called, my lord?" he asked, wasting no time for courtesies.

"Indeed I did, Lord Marshal", said the Steward slowly, studying him with eyes that betrayed nothing.

"Can I be of assistance?" asked the Rohir.

Denethor did not speak at first. He kept his eyes still on the young warrior, as if he read more on Éomer's face than he let on.

"You're bold, Marshal", he said at last, never turning away his eyes, "but that is to be expected, considering you're of that wild brood of the North. It has proved to be a good thing for us in past, for without the fearlessness of yourself and your men we would have lost some very important battles. Because of this, Gondor is ever thankful to you."

He frowned then and then look of his eyes became very sharp, "However, you have reached far above yourself in coveting Prince Imrahil's daughter. She's a jewel that will not be surrendered quite so cheaply."

"Princess Lothíriel is no family heirloom to be hid and bound in chains. And to me she is more beautiful and priceless than any jewel in this world. Perhaps you should for once listen to what she says herself instead of treating her like she had no will of her own", Éomer answered, trying to remain calm. "But maybe that is a view too wild and northern for this stone palace."

"I have no interest in your unruly ways, Marshal", Denethor said sharply. "They are not welcome here."

"Of course", said the Rohir; he wanted to kick himself for speaking out of turn. He and his big mouth!

Denethor made a sound that was something between a sigh and a snort. He sat down by his desk and gave Éomer another of those sharp looks, but the Marshal met it coolly and unfalteringly.

"As I said, we are thankful for all your help. It will be remembered, and I'd have you take my heartfelt thanks to your King. He should also know that if he needs it, Gondor will offer help in turn", Denethor continued. Now his tone was again even. He went on, "However, due to these unpleasant events concerning Princess Lothíriel, I would ask you to leave the realm at sunrise the day after tomorrow, and not return unless you are called back by myself. Will your men be ready by then?"

The Steward's words felt like a slap against his face. So this was how Gondor now paid back the help given to them? Anger and surprise were what he felt, but somehow with great effort Éomer was able to keep his face unmoving and hold back his sharp words. He would not give this man the satisfaction of seeing him defeated.

"Aye. I will have my riders ready by then, Lord Denethor", said the Marshal. He was careful no to let any colour enter his voice. He stared at the man before him, "Is there anything else?"

"No, Lord Marshal. That would be all", said the Steward.

The Third Marshal of the Riddermark bowed his head, turned, and left the study without further word.

But inside, he was howling.

* * *

**A/N: **And here's update! I hope this won't earn me too many boos. But the course of true love never did run smooth, does it? And what can I say? I love the drama. :D

Originally I meant to include a scene where Éomer interacts more with Lothíriel and her family and kin, but that would have grown this chapter far too long, and a split would have completely messed up with what I have in mind for the next chapter. Plus I always need to keep in mind this is supposed to be 10 chapters tops.

I know the matter of Galdegir remains unpleasantly open, but I don't think this is the last we hear of him. That he gets away with it is (in my opinion) an illustration of a too realistic setting where you're protected by your high status in society when you have more than earned a punishment for your actions. Galdegir is, as a first-born son of a great lord almost as powerful as Prince Imrahil, not someone you get easily your hands on. Like Lothíriel says, he'd probably deny he ever did any harm to her or that he drugged her. And there's not really a way of proving anything now. Éomer, coming from a different culture, doesn't really understand it. This outcome is also my attempt to emphasise the differences between the cultures of Gondor and Rohan (something I've been near obsessed with lately).

Yet villainous as he is, Galdegir isn't necessarily wrong about Imrahil and his treatment of Lothíriel. More on that later as well.

Hope you enjoyed this update, and thanks for reading!

* * *

Inspiration for the chapter: Florence + The Machine - Breath of Life

* * *

**Le Pleiade - **Hopefully you continue to enjoy the story. :)

**Covered in Bruises - **Oh, Éomer would no doubt like that. But he can't really get his hands on Galdegir without causing trouble, and for the moment that villain is more or less untouchable.

**Kiiimberly - **Yeah, he is not a nice fellow. I think he's a bit too taken with his status in life. And you're right about his intentions - he'd certainly like being wed to the daughter of one of the most powerful men in the land.

**Talia119 - **Lothíriel herself doesn't probably think drugs and vomit are the best setting for reunion. :D I can't even tell you how much I want to have Éomer introducing Galdegir to some proper Rohirric justice...

Yes, I do have a beard. It is big and it's full of secrets. :D

**BlueNynaeve - **Well, it was not a hope long-lived, it would seem for now... I'm glad to hear that I've been able to create such suspense!


	6. Chapter 6

_Farewell sweet earth and northern sky,  
for ever blest, since here did lie  
and here with lissom limbs did run  
beneath the Moon, beneath the Sun,  
Lúthien Tinúviel  
more fair than mortal tongue can tell.  
Though all to ruin fell the world  
and were dissolved and backward hurled  
unmade into the old abyss,  
yet were its making good, for this –  
the dusk, the dawn, the earth, the sea –  
that Lúthien for a time should be. _

_- _The Song of Parting. Of Beren and Lúthien

* * *

**Chapter 6**

The preparations for the departure of the Rohirrim were mostly done by the midday of that day after the unfortunate proposal and the Steward's request that the Marshal and his men leave the realm. Men riding in an éored were efficient and fast and were used to taking leave on an even shorter notice than this. As a matter of fact, in this case time was plenty, as they were only set to leave the next sunrise.

His men knew Éomer well enough to know something was wrong, but they did not ask as they could also see it was not something he wished to talk about. Had Éothain been along, however, the captain would no doubt have dragged the truth out of his Marshal. But he was back in Aldburg and in command of the men Éomer had left behind to attend to the duties of protection and guarding the realm.

As for himself, he had his men ready and saw that the horses were set for the journey as well, and then he waited. As expected, no sight of Lothíriel was there for him to see, even though he sat in the stables for a while hoping she might find him there.

She didn't come... but someone else did.

The day was turning into an afternoon when he heard a knock on his door. The Marshal had been distracting himself by honing his sword and thinking of Aldburg when the noise lifted him from his thoughts. As he stood up and made his way to open the door, he wondered what it could be: no lord or servant had talked to him since yesterday unless necessary, with the exception of Boromir. The captain had seemed genuinely sorry for how things had turned out.

"I think they are wrong – Uncle and my father, that is. They don't treat Lothíriel right – nor did they treat _you _right, considering you're kin to King Théoden. But I think it's actually kind of beautiful, how well you'd suit her. I never realised it before but it makes a lot of sense", he had said and shook his head. At least he had offered some hope when he had said he'd talk about this with his father the Steward and see if there was anything he could do.

But now someone was there on Éomer's door and he wondered if it was Boromir again... however, when he opened the door, there stood a young man he recognised as Prince Amrothos of Dol Amroth. They had been introduced to each other in the ball and had exchanged some words on horses, but the Rohir didn't think any of that warranted this visit.

"My lord Marshal", greeted the prince with a smile, "May I come in? I'd have a word with you."

"Of course. Come in", Éomer answered, hiding his surprise. He hadn't thought any of Lothíriel's immediate family would want to have anything to do with him. But Amrothos made his way in and the Marshal gestured him to sit down. Once the prince was sat, he cast a searching look at the young man and asked: "How can I be of assistance?"

The prince grinned, "Oh, it's actually the other way around, my lord. You should ask how _I _can be of assistance to _you. _Because that is precisely what I've come to do here."

"I fear I don't follow you", Éomer answered warily, wondering what this was about. Had Lord Denethor or Prince Imrahil perhaps sent him here?

"Mm, sorry. This is just the kind of thing Lothíriel is always complaining about – I have the brain of a hare, she tells me. Speaking of her, I'm here on an errand from her. She asked me to bring you this", Amrothos chatted, sounding a bit like he was talking to someone he had known far longer than just couple of days. Be it as may, he reached for his breast pocket and pulled out a small sealed scroll.

"What is that?" asked Éomer quickly. A word from Lothíriel! It was more than he had dared to hope for.

"She sent this for you – asked me to bring it, because Father has effectively imprisoned her in the house and she couldn't come here herself. Here you are", said the prince and offered him the scroll. Éomer snatched it from Amrothos' hand and tore it open, eager to read whatever it was she had written him.

The message read:

_My dearest Éomer, _

_Meet me today in the old archives of the Citadel. Come as soon as you have received this message. In case you don't know the way, ask Amrothos for directions._

_Yours always,_

_L_

For the longest time, he stared down at the letter and a part of him was convinced this was either some plot or a dream. But when he looked up and took note of the grin on Amrothos' face, he wasn't sure what to think.

"It's real, my lord. I saw her write it on her own hand", he reassured, having guessed his thoughts.

"I don't understand why you are doing this. Delivering a message to a man who has been ordered to leave the realm because of her", said the Rohir doubtfully. He frowned, "Surely your father would be angry if he knew?"

"Yes, he'd be mad. But has his anger ever prevented me before? Not at all", Amrothos said lightly. Then his expression became more serious, and his brow furrowed, "Someone has to help her. And I was there yesterday – saw and heard how she cried after you had gone. I've never seen her cry like that, my lord, and I knew that this is important. Truthfully speaking it broke my heart."

He sighed and the frown on his face deepened as he continued, "You see, she's never been too happy. Not here, not in Dol Amroth. She's all awkward and thinks herself more stupid than she is. Doesn't have too many friends, you see how it goes. Ever since our mother died... well, it wasn't easy for her. And Father certainly didn't help it, the wreck he became. Little Lothíriel decided to put aside her own grief and help our father any way she could, forgetting about herself... she did it to help him of course, but I fear it didn't ultimately do too good for either of them. She has lost her wings and Father can't bear the idea of letting her go. But she deserves to be happy, you know. And if you're the thing that would make her happy... why shouldn't I help you – both of you? I want Lothíriel to be free, use her wings, and see that she's _strong _after all. I want her to _breathe. _Would you help her do that, Lord Marshal?"

"There's nothing I want more", Éomer said gravely, staring at the prince with wide unblinking eyes, as if he only just now saw him.

Amrothos smiled.

"Then go to her, my lord."

* * *

When Amrothos had gone, Lothíriel pulled up the hood of her cloak and as quietly as she could she opened the window of her room. Lightly she climbed out and fled through the garden, and no one saw her escape.

The guards only knew that the princess was not to be let out of the front gate... and Father knew she had locked the door of her room, where she remained moping and sulking. It'd be a while before he'd try and call her through the door. No answer would come, and at first he'd give up. But he'd try again, and again, and eventually he'd realise something was wrong.

By then, she'd be long gone... to what end, she didn't know quite yet.

As she made her way up towards the Citadel she kept her pace even and calm, trying to suppress the desire to run. She didn't need anyone wondering just what she was up to, and she seriously hoped that Uncle had not commanded the guards to keep a close eye on anyone that might be the Princess of Dol Amroth... but then, no one ever stopped her, and she thought perhaps Uncle had thought it was enough to trust her father to guard her.

She often visited the archives, even the older parts, and so her appearance there should alarm anyone. But today luck was with her. The elderly man in charge of the archives was fast asleep at his work station and never took note of her passing by.

It was dark down in the vault, but Lothíriel had descended the stairs often enough to know her way and the steps even without light. She had brought a candle, however; light was needed for what she was planning. Once she was down there, she called: "Éomer?"

One moment long as eternity she feared he wouldn't be there – that something had gone wrong and Amrothos had not been able to deliver the message. But then he appeared from the shadows, and there was dust and cobwebs on his hair, and _sweet Elbereth, _the sight of him was like a balm for her aching heart.

"Here I am, beloved", he said softly and reached for her.

"We have ways to go yet", she said firmly but with gentleness. Her words seemed to surprise him – there were no other doors in the vault as far as he could see – and she smiled at him. Carefully, she offered him the candle, "Would you hold this for me?"

He took the light without questions and she looked about. The book stand was on its place; though someone had piled more scrolls and parchments on it than the last time she had been here, it didn't seem like the stand had been moved. As carefully as she could she moved the fragile thing... revealing the stone plates under it. They differed from the rest of the tiles and were of a slightly darker colour, and in the middle of them was a small round one that almost drowned in because of all the dust. But she knew what it was and pressed it, and the awaited sound of stone creaking and grating echoed in the vault. When her Marshal saw the source of the noise, his eyes widened.

"An actual secret door? I didn't see that coming", he commented as he studied the door. It was hidden behind a bookshelf, which had effectively been built into the stone. With all the books and scrolls and pieces of parchment, one would never have known it was actually a door. Pleased to see that the ancient mechanism still worked, she put the book stand back on its place to hide the button.

"Neither did I, when I was six years old and shuffled about here in the search of a treasure. It's amazing what things you might find out when you're small of size and have the ingenious mind of a child", Lothíriel said with a smile. She offered him her hand, "Come."

He followed her and they slipped in that door – he had to crouch and walk sideways, what with his height and broad shoulders – and she pulled the secret door close behind them.

Éomer gave the candle back to her, and she lead the way. Almost immediately a round staircase started, circling up and up towards heavens. Or at least that was how it had felt like when she had first climbed these stairs years ago. Though a secret door and treasures behind it were probably every child's dream, Lothíriel had not come here too often. If she did, someone would have found out about it sooner or later. And you never know when a secret haven might prove useful.

The climb up was long, but eventually the light of day penetrated the shadow, and they came into a small round chamber. It was small indeed: had he stopped to stand in the middle of the chamber and spread his arms, both his hands would have touched the walls. There was but one very old chair, but at this point it looked like one just had to sneeze towards its general direction and it would fall apart. She had brought here some pillows and on the narrow window board there were still some of her childhood treasures, like peculiar rocks, a chipped cup she had liked so much she hadn't wanted to throw it away,dried flowers, and other small objects like that. The window was narrow as well but let in some light. As it was afternoon already, it was dim but it was enough. If one looked out, one would see the mountains to the west, and she believed the little chamber was so located one could not spot it from outside.

"What is this place?" asked the Marshal in wonder.

"I don't know for sure", said Lothíriel as she gestured him to sit down with her on the pillows, "though I have my own story. I used to imagine there was this old grumpy librarian long ago who didn't like people but loved his books and scrolls. He had this place built so he could study the past in peace. But eventually he died, and like so many things of years of old, this place was forgotten."

"And no one has ever discovered it before you?" he asked as he settled there. She shrugged.

"I know not. At least there's enough dust on the floor to imply that no one has been here since the last time I came here", she said softly and looked at him then, and suddenly all this seemed idle and unimportant... for he was there, and this might be their goodbye for ever. She put her hand in his.

"Take me with you when you go?" she asked quietly.

He looked down and sighed.

"As much as I'd love to do that, I can't. Not after what happened... your father would know it was me who stole you, even if I was able to smuggle you out of the city. Perhaps our horses could take us as far as Rohan, but your father and uncle would still send men after us, and demand me to give you back. Maybe they'd even come themselves, with the power of Gondor behind them. And my uncle would have no choice but comply. He won't risk the peace, not even for my sake", he said and his voice was sad and heavy. Lothíriel saw he was right, hard as it was to admit that.

"Then let's go somewhere else. North, south, west. Wherever we want", she said in a brief bout of madness, and the mere idea of leaving all this behind with him was intoxicating. "Just the two of us... alone and free."

Éomer looked up at her then. The sadness was still there, and now he pulled her closer to himself so that he might hold her.

"It sounds wonderful", he said softly, resting his head against hers, "But I don't think that's an option either. Lothíriel, the world is becoming so dark, and so many dangers are out there, not just in east. If we travelled all alone... I dare not think what might happen. We could very well come across something so bad, so tremendous, that I would not be able to protect you. And I would never forgive myself if something happened to you because I couldn't guard you."

"So you say we should just give them what they want? We should just give up?" she asked, trembling even as she spoke those words.

"No. We'll never give up", said her dear Rohir heatedly, holding her a bit tighter. "Dear one, this is not the end."

"What should we do then?" she asked, fingering the front of his plain coat.

"I'll go back to Rohan. I'll speak with Uncle of all this, and I'll ask if he could arrange something... he's a King, after all. He has authority I don't. He could suggest forming a stronger alliance between our realms, and present as a condition our marriage. It makes more sense than your father and uncle seem to be willing to admit – though I doubt their rejection was entirely because of rational reasons... still, if we have the support of my uncle, it could be easier to make your father understand that a marriage between the two of us would be a good thing. This way, we don't need to destroy your relationship with your father", he explained. And what he said did indeed make sense. At last, a smile dawned on Lothíriel's face and she felt some hope.

"Yes. You're right", she said softly. "It's just... when will I see you again? Will I have to wait yet another year for you?"

"You can do this, if there is a promise of a future behind it", he told her gently. Tenderly, he lifted up her face so that he could look at her... and the light of love shone in those dark eyes, and she loved him. For him, she could endure.

He then seemed to remember something, and he reached for his pocket.

"I made something for you last night, when I couldn't sleep. Perhaps it could help you endure... to remember me, when I'm gone", he said softly and opened his hand. There lay a bracelet, woven of leather strings in elaborate pattern. From one string hung a small horse carved of light wood.

"I know it's not much. It's no jewel fit for a princess... I should have brought something from Rohan with me", he said and sounded a bit embarrassed now. But Lothíriel looked up at him and smiled.

"Dearest, I think it's wonderful. I love it", she told him. Really, his craftsmanship and the fact that he had made it himself with her on mind made this bracelet more precious to her than any piece of jewellery she had ever owned. He seemed to recognise her delight and he let out a breath; ever so gently, he fastened it around her wrist.

"You should have something from me too... I wasn't as clever, though, so I can't give you anything made by my own hand... I hope this will do", Lothíriel said then and took a ring from her finger. Seeing his large hands, she bit her lip, "It doesn't look like you can wear it..."

"It's fine. I'll find a string and wear it around my neck", he said, his fingers closing around the silver ring she had given him. She placed a hand on his, feeling the hard strength there, and hoped she could have been just as fearless and tough as him.

"Éomer, I..." she began, but none of the words she knew seemed adequate, and suddenly she hoped she had read more of those romances about knights and ladies, because they always knew what to say. But how to put in words what moved in her heart when she looked at this golden-haired man who had only just entered her life and yet he already meant so much to her?

So, in lacking the right words, she kissed him. She lifted herself up, sought that space in his arms, tried to get as close as it was possible... and she kissed him, like this was the last time they'd ever kiss. The fire roared inside her blood and he answered the kiss with equal passion and fervour.

How she ended up laying on her back on the pillows, with him above her and her very being _screaming _for more, Lothíriel wasn't so sure. She knew it wasn't something princesses ought to do, but she was past caring, because she had never wanted anything in her life like she wanted him – and really, she had never _had _anything like this. She had always lived for others, so was it so wrong for this one golden afternoon to live for herself?

"You do not know how badly I want you. For my own to keep. Mine, always", he said, and his voice was hoarse and he didn't seem quite coherent, and in his eyes was an invitation... a dangerous invitation, one that would take her on a road she couldn't turn back from. But perhaps... perhaps she had already stepped on that road, by letting him close, and bringing him here with her, into the only place in Minas Tirith no one would find them?

"Yours alone. Yes. I was yours the moment you first kissed me back", she told him, for that was the truth.

_It was __**truth. **_She was already his and always would be, even if there was no place in this world for them together.

Éomer let out a trembling breath, and for a moment he held close his eyes. When he spoke, his voice was very quiet, "I should not ask this of you."

"But I'd give this to you gladly and without regret. If something goes wrong... this could be our only chance, ever. And I'd like to have this one sweet moment, if it's all that is set aside for us", she told him as she caught his face between her hands. "It may be only for now, and it may be forbidden, but it is _true._"

"I love you", was all he could say, and he kissed her again, and there was no turning back.

And so it happened that the Princess of Dol Amroth followed her wild heart, and gave herself to a man of the North in a secret chamber full of dust and felt no regret for doing so. Uncomfortable it was at first, but the great tenderness of his touch and kiss made it easy, and the feeling of being so close to him made up for whatever pain she felt. There were no boundaries here, nothing to part them, and in each kiss and caress there was a world of freedom; she was flying, high in the gardens of stars, and he flew beside her. But it was bittersweet as well, for it was a freedom and a flight that would have to end.

"Shh, my love. Don't cry. Forever is ours, if only for today", he told her as he buried his face in her hair, though she could hear the same grief in his voice. So, to rid them both of the sorrow of parting for one moment more, she pulled him into another kiss... for there in a kiss of lovers is a light and a comfort and immortality.

Afterwards, they lay there in silence. Lothíriel was curled up against the chest of her beloved, and as she idly ran her fingers over his side, she watched how her own dark hair tangled with his golden mane. Laying there and wrapped in this one shining moment, she thought of how much it made sense. How could not her father see that?

She sighed and a strong but sheltering arm wrapped about her.

"How do you feel?" Éomer asked softly.

"I'm fine. I feel good... for now", she answered and looked up at him. "I am going to miss you."

"Likewise", he answered, planting a kiss on her brow. She snuggled closer to him and trembled.

"They're probably looking for me already. Father will be mad with worry", she murmured.

"What are you going to tell him, when you go back?" he asked, sounding a bit worried.

"I'm not sure yet. Maybe I'll tell him I was angry with him and hid myself somewhere to teach him a lesson, or something like that..." Lothíriel muttered. She didn't really look forward to confronting her father, but this was worth all reprimands he could ever come up with.

"They will assume you were with me", he said quietly.

"What can they do about it? It's not like they can put me in a prison", said the princess, trying for an unaffected tone.

"Oh, but they can. Not all prisons have bars, and some of them are gilded and grand", he said, his voice sorrowful. Realising how right he was about that she shivered and pressed herself closer to him, as though he could have sheltered her from a fate like that. He noticed her discomfort and held her tight, "If only I could somehow take you away from here... Nightingales were not made to live in cages."

"But they can endure it, if there's a promise of freedom", she said, lifting her head so that she could kiss him. Looking at him, she knew the unavoidable had come. It hurt, but she still said those words: "We must say goodbye – the way we didn't the last time you left."

"Aye", he agreed and let out a sigh. Resting a hand on her cheek, he looked at her gravely, "I promise I will find a way back to you. Somehow I'll find you again. But it may take some time – maybe years even. So you must stay strong."

"But what will I hold on to when you're gone?" she asked, her voice trembling, "If they put me in a cage and tell me to forget you?"

"Hold on to the knowledge that even if the mountains fall and the sea rises to swallow all lands, my heart will still remain here with yours. No matter what, you will be with me always", he told her gently, and then he claimed her lips in a kiss.

"Always", whispered Lothíriel into this one last moment of light.

* * *

Leaving her that day was one of the most difficult things Éomer had ever done. But seeing how she fought to be brave he found his own strength, and with one last kiss his took leave of her; she'd stay in the secret chamber for a little while more, to try and make it look like they had not spent the afternoon together. However, as he quietly made his way from the vaults, he knew he couldn't stay in this city one moment more. Instead, he decided he and his men would depart immediately. He had said goodbyes to his beloved princess, and now there was nothing more to hold him back.

But as he made way out to give orders for his men to get them ready (he'd have to go and fetch his armour still), he took note of a servant practically jumping at the sight of him and dashing away, and as he expected it was not long before Prince Imrahil came striding from the palace. The man's face was red with anger and he looked positively outraged, though behind this outburst Éomer could still recognise the concern for his daughter that caused it.

"You! What have you done with my daughter, you fiend?!" he exclaimed as he came striding, a hand on his sword and two of his men just behind him. For a moment, the Marshal even wondered if the Prince would attack him here in the very Citadel of Minas Tirith.

"I have done absolutely nothing with her, my lord", answered Éomer coolly, straightening his posture and meeting the man's eyes calmly. _Nothing that she didn't want me to do, at least... _

"I know she has been with you this whole afternoon! How did you ensnare her? Where is she?" Imrahil demanded.

"Uncle, I don't think Lord Marshal has hid her in his pockets", said the voice of Captain Boromir as he too came from the palace. Apparently he had seen this scene from inside and had come to prevent it the best he could.

"My lord, I'm sure your daughter is completely fine, wherever she is", said the tall Rohir. He lifted his eyebrows, "If I had her with me, do you think I would parade around like this?"

"Lies! I know you have done something to her – you've somehow stolen her, haven't you?" Imrahil ranted angrily. His indignation only seemed to grow, which Boromir understood too.

"You need to calm down, Uncle. We'll continue with the search – I promise we'll find her sooner or later. There are only so many places a little princess can hide in", he said in a soothing tone, as though a man taming a wild beast.

"Then I want to know, _Marshal, _where have _you _been this afternoon?" asked the Prince, looking a still like he might draw his sword any moment.

"I was under the impression that in this city the free men of the west were not held accountable for their comings and goings", Éomer answered as calmly as he could, though he knew if the Prince started to really dig for details, he would have hard time explaining himself. But even as the older man looked like that was just what he'd do, came the voice of Amrothos.

"Lord Marshal was with me. I was showing him around in the lower levels", he said lightly as he strode to the scene. His father sharply looked at him, seeming a bit like he was intensely disappointed.

"You were needed here looking for your sister", he said. He still sounded angry, but to Éomer it appeared like the man's indignation was starting to lose its edge.

"Why? She's not a child anymore. I'm sure she's just sulking somewhere, hoping to prove a point or something. She'll come home sooner or later, and you'll feel like a fool for raising this uproar, Father", Amrothos said unaffectedly. He smiled at the Rohir, "Walk with me to the barracks, Lord Marshal?"

"Gladly, my lord", he answered. They left behind the still fuming Prince of Dol Amroth, and as soon as they were an earshot away Éomer glanced at the young man beside himself. "Thank you. I'm not sure how I'd have gotten myself out of that one."

"Oh, it's fine. I did tell you I'd help you, didn't I? And Father can be a bit senseless sometimes when it comes to Lothíriel", Amrothos answered. But his expression became then grave, "You're about to leave, aren't you?"

"Aye. I was just on my way to have my men ready", sighed the Marshal. He glanced at the prince, "and it is thanks to you that I was able to tell _her _goodbye."

"Don't mention it. I'd think you both needed it", said the young man.

When they got to the way that lead into the barracks, Amrothos stopped and laid a hand on Éomer's shoulder. His expression, so cheerful before, had now become solemn.

"I know not where your road takes you from here, and if we should meet again. But I wish for the best, and hopefully you'll come and find Lothíriel again. I'll try and look after her until that day comes", he said quietly.

"Thank you. Remind her sometimes that I love her – especially when she's sad. I should be here to tell her that myself, but..." Éomer's voice trailed off.

"Yes. I know. Well, maybe Boromir can change Lord Denethor's mind, and I'll talk to my father. We mustn't lose hope", Amrothos said, his voice comforting. He smiled, "Goodbye then, Lord Marshal. May Elbereth watch over you."

An hour later they were on the road. Some complaints had been voiced out for this early departure, but considering all was ready for the journey there was not a real reason to tarry in the city any longer. And so the Marshal and his riders left behind this place where they had come as helpers and left as unwanted guests.

There was a hill to the west, not far from the city itself. From there you could regard Mundburg, standing proud and unfaltering as it had since the Sea-king had built it. A little while Éomer remained there, holding back Firefoot as he looked back the city... his eyes sought the Citadel and the Steward's pennant flying in the wind. Somewhere in that settlement of stone and boundaries and pride there was a young princess. Perhaps she was already listening to her father scold her for disappearing and courting wild northmen.

He sighed and thought of her, of when he'd see her again. Maybe he never would.

_Farewell, my heart. _

* * *

**A/N: **Here's an update! Hope you enjoy it.

I think there's an unwritten rule somewhere that if you're writing from "forbidden love" angle you also must include at least one amorous encounter of passion. Well, what can I say? If there's a place for fanservice, secret doors and chambers, and fulfillment of fantasies, it is fanfiction.

So, Éomer has once again taken his leave of Lothíriel. Originally I thought they might not see each other in a long while, but now this another thing is forming in my mind and it'll probably add one extra chapter to the story, but I think we can all agree that it's painful for them to be apart so long. I know that the idea of Lothíriel running away with him is an attractive idea, but like Éomer explains it's not really possible at this point. Perhaps, if he had not asked for Lothíriel's hand and they had instead kept it secret, there could have been a chance. But he fears what it would cause if he did steal her and what he might unleash by doing so. If they ran away together there would be little chance of ever making a peace with Imrahil, and knowing how much Lothíriel loves her family Éomer wouldn't want to cut her ties to them. So for the moment he's willing to play nice, so he plans on asking for the help of Théoden. After all, as the King Théoden does have different resources and authority.

There has been some talk in the reviews about the political workings of this situation. In the answers section of this Author's note I answer those matters (why Éomer doesn't go and challenge Galdegir, what reasons make up Imrahil's rejection and the outright impolite treatment of Éomer), though I hoped they'd come clear from the story itself. But to summarise my thoughts on these matters I'd like to emphasise that the dynamics and conflicts of this story revolve a lot around the idea of cultural difference, the history of High Men and Middle Men, and prejudices not only in mind but also in action. However, as Amrothos and Boromir show, the sons don't necessarily always share the prejudices of their fathers.

I've tried to work on _House of Sun _but this piece keeps interfering with it. For the moment I'm even considering putting _HoS _on a hold until I can finish this. I don't think I'll ever learn not to write two stories at the same time...

Thank you for reading and reviewing!

* * *

Inspiration for the chapter: Katherine Jenkins - Who Wants To Live Forever (cover)

* * *

**Talia119 - **She'll probably regret it this time too, but like I tried to explain here she and Éomer both realise it would probably just end in a disaster.

Where do you think all the stories come from? The birds nesting in my beard tell me these things. :D

**Kiiimberly - **That it certainly was. But even high lords, men as great as Imrahil and Denethor, are not infallible or flawless.

**not paranoid enough - **Thanks! I was a bit wary at first how they'd be received, but in retrospect I'm happy that I have included them.

**Borys68 - **Yet, as Éomer thinks to himself: a man's worth is not measured by where he was born or the grandeur of his home. This is what I love about the Rohirrim.

I have a feeling if this bit of defiling became a common knowledge Imrahil might come after him with an axe.

**anna1991 - **Thank you for your kind words! I'm glad to hear you enjoy my stories so much! :)

**Covered in Bruises – **Alas, Rohan letting Gondor go down would be unwise for their own survival. And I'd say Éomer is enough of a man and a Marshal to understand what insult he suffered from Denethor and Imrahil is not worth letting the world of Men burn.

As for whether he should have challenged Galdegir, I don't think it's that simple. If Galdegir had called Éomer savage publicly that would have been one thing, but he did so in some suspicious circumstances and just after he was roughly manhandled (however justified) on the front of a lady. Moreover, Éomer is high enough on the ladder of society to understand he can't just go and challenge every man he doesn't like, especially in Gondor where he is but a guest. At that point he's trying to behave anyway, and engaging in single combats would not help his chances of getting Imrahil's consent (remember – at that point he had not been rejected yet). And finally as I've tried to illustrate this piece does emphasise the differences between Gondor and Rohan and especially their prejudices. That the Rohirrim are wild savages is a common prejudice in Gondor, so if Eorlingas got offended every time someone mentioned it, they would have no time for other things than single combats. They're down-to-earth enough that from their point of view it's a mild insult anyway, which they usually answer along the line "as if those powdered, perfumed snobs knew anything".

**Le Pleiade - **Lothíriel certainly would run away with him if it was just about her. But she happens to have an overprotective parent who could effectively command all the forces of Dol Amroth after her... so, running away would be a great risk and unleash things unforeseen and terrible. We'll see how this develops. :)

**Ranger – **You are right that Éomer is indeed of royal blood and that he's actually very eligible suitor for Lothíriel. As a descendant of Eorl he is definitely more than suitable and it's not too sensible of Imrahil or Denethor to treat him like they do.

However, that is actually very much the point here. I've tried to show that despite their alliance there are prejudices between the two realms, that there hasn't really been that much interaction between their societies and so they don't perhaps have – at the moment – the best and the clearest image of each other. With this approach I've also tried to engage the cultural history of descendants of Númenor, the High Men, and the Rohirrim who are Middle Men. There's a whole history there, where Númenorians came to the Men of Middle-earth first as teachers and gift-givers, and then became rulers and even oppressors. I think some of this heritage that High Men are "better" than Middle Men is still alive and that is what I'm doing here. So even if Éomer is of royal blood, it's "just" the blood of a House of lesser Middle Men who supposedly aren't as great and fine as the Gondorian descendants of Númenor. Even in fandom you sometimes see Rohan referred to as "not as good as Gondor". In other words what is true for the real world history doesn't necessarily always agree in Middle-earth, especially when there's a cultural history like this behind it.

And as far as the matter of the inheritance of the throne goes, we must think of this from the point of view of the characters, not our own. Of course we know Théodred dies in the canon and so leaves Éomer the sole heir, but at this point the characters _don't know that. _Théodred is very much alive, he is probably going to get married and have children of his own for all they know. In this piece Imrahil (and consequently Denethor, because he listens to a lot what Imrahil says) deems it would be a drop in status for Lothíriel to marry Éomer: she's about the most high-born unmarried woman in Gondor, so should she become a wife to a Rohirric Marshal, thus making her "the second best"?

Moreover, like Éomer asks Imrahil: "Are you then saying _you _are not judging with your heart?" I was hoping this at least, if nothing else so far, would make it clear to the reader that Imrahil doesn't think of matters concerning Lothíriel with pure reason and that his judgement is emotional and biased. Like I promised this will be explored more, as soon as the next chapter I hope.

So, in essence the impolite treatment Éomer receives from Imrahil and Denethor is a compilation of prejudice, the legacy of Númenorians in Middle-earth, and personal feelings. I did hope this would be more clear than it apparently is.


	7. Chapter 7

_But Lúthien was silent, and from that hour she sang not again in Doriath. A brooding silence fell upon the woods, and the shadows lengthened in the kingdom of Thingol. _

- Of Beren and Lúthien

* * *

**Chapter 7**

_June 3017, Dol Amroth_

Summer was usually a beautiful time in the city by the sea, but even it could not colour the grey of rain and storm. Lothíriel didn't mind, though: she rather liked rain, as long as it eventually ended and let the sun shine and moon to grace the night. Still, it was easy to lose oneself to the rain and to watching how it pattered against the glass. She liked that place of forgetfulness, because there she didn't have to remember.

And there would have been many things to remember: eventually daring out from that secret chamber, facing Father's wrath, and then the inevitable exile in Dol Amroth... or other memories that were both sweet and bitter at the same time.

_The feel of his golden hair, the touch of his lips, his voice when he had called her, the way he had filled her completely... _

In Dol Amroth days merged to each other, and what had happened in Minas Tirith now seemed years ago rather than just two months. Strange, how time could behave like that. With _him, _moments had flown by like on wings of haste.

At least it seemed Cuileth had given up on her. Well, one could not blame the poor woman. Lothíriel knew she had been about as responsive as a rock when she had first come from Minas Tirith, and eventually even Cuileth's motivation had found its end when she had refused to play along, though it could also be in part because she was with child and much concerned by her approaching motherhood. Perhaps it had been wrong – or perhaps it was _still _wrong how she trudged through day and night like a sleepwalker... but Éomer had been right when he had told her that a cage was always a cage, even if it was gilded.

And she had never been quite as aware of her own cage as she was now.

Heavy steps distracted her then and she glanced about, only to see her father entering the old study of Prince Adrahil, which was more or less her realm these days.

Father had been angry in the beginning, but she had expected that. She had endured his scoldings quietly, and when he was gasping for air and rubbing his chest, Lothíriel had given him a sharp look and asked: "How old do you think I am, Father? Why do you still take me for a child?"

He had blinked and not known what to say, until eventually he had gathered himself.

"That is not how a princess behaves! What is wrong with you, Lothíriel? Why have you become like this?" he had asked and the hint of fear and desperation in his voice had nearly broken her will. But she had known she could not give in. She had promised to endure.

"Because the caged bird, once she has tasted freedom, will not be tame again", she had told him and left him there. She'd have locked the door of her room behind her had she not found it broken.

The next day, Father had sent her with Amrothos back to Dol Amroth, and there she had stayed ever since. Eventually, he had come to stay in the city for a while and brought her books, obviously as an attempt of making peace. Lothíriel had thanked and even given him a small smile, but the relationship between them was not the same as it had been before. And sometimes when she was in his presence, Lothíriel felt like he trod around her like she was a wild animal that might attack any moment.

"Daughter", he greeted her now, taking a seat across her.

"Father", she answered, though she didn't turn to look at him.

After a moment of hesitation, he spoke again, "Why do you hole up here in this chamber? Aren't you lonely?"

"I prefer being alone to the alternatives", she answered nonchalantly. He sighed.

"You are like a stranger these days, Lothíriel. Why can't things be like they used to be?" he asked sadly. He sounded so genuinely upset that it made her heart ache, but Lothíriel had hardened her will, and she knew she couldn't give in.

"You know why, Father", she told him and gave him a steady, unfaltering look. The Prince of Dol Amroth frowned, but then he assumed a gentler look and reached to place his hand on her arm.

"It'll get better. Someone else will come along, and you'll forget about that man", he said in a voice that was probably meant to comfort her. But it only roused cold thoughts in her, and she gave him what could have been called a glare.

"Like you forgot about Mother?" she asked, even though she knew it was a cruel thing to say. And like she'd expected, his eyes widened in surprise and hurt.

"That is not – it's not the same thing..." he stammered. Seeing how her words had stung, Lothíriel felt guilty. It was wrong, to remind him of her mother like that... and _she _would have told her that she should not reward one slight with another. But she needed to make Father see her point of view.

"Love is love, Father. No matter where it happens. And I know my heart", said the princess, her voice softer this time. "I can't be your little daughter forever."

"I know that, daughter. But you must see he is not deserving of you", he said quietly.

"In my opinion he _is. _Shouldn't I be the one to decide who deserves me and who not?" Lothíriel asked. Intently she looked at him, "Father, I think you're saying this only because you're scared of letting me go. Because if I go, all that remains of my mother will go too."

"That is enough", he said sharply and stood up.

"Don't you see, Father? She wouldn't want any of this. Mother would not want me to become a prisoner just for your comfort", she pressed on, though each word brought a bang of guilt. _Oh, her poor father... _

"Lothíriel, you don't know what you're asking. What do you know of the Rohirrim? No, you're meant for something else – something greater than to just become a horse-lord's plaything", he said, and he now sounded angry.

"So _you _know them so well, Father? And you know Lord Éomer and the kind of man he is?" she asked heatedly. His words almost had her temper rising, but she was able to hold back her fury. Shouting and outrage would not help her, not in this matter. When she continued, she spoke more softly, "Please, Father. Let me go."

His face was unrelenting.

"When the right man comes, I will."

* * *

_August 3017, Aldburg_

In Aldburg, life went on as it would. There was something comforting about the routine of everyday life: as a Marshal, Éomer always knew what to do, even as the times turned more difficult and his waking hours were consumed by trying to protect the realm. But though life was filled with battles and concerns, _she _was always on his mind.

Upon his return from Gondor, he had not wasted time in Aldburg but hurried to Edoras. A report of the campaign in south was expected of course, and only when uncle was satisfied with his explanation of details of the quest did he dare to ask that question which had been in his mind since he had left Mundburg.

"My lord, during my visits in the White City I've met this young woman, and I have found myself falling in love with her. I'd very much like to bring her in Rohan as my wife. However, Princess Lothíriel is a lady of high birth, kin to Lord Denethor himself... my proposal of marriage was accepted by her, but rejected by her kinsmen. King, I'd ask for your help in this matter. You have greater authority than myself and they would be more inclined to listen to your word than mine", he had said carefully, all the while studying the face of his uncle. When Théoden had said nothing, he continued, "My lord, I believe it wouldn't be a bad idea. A marriage between myself and her would strengthen the bonds of alliance between our two realms."

His uncle said nothing for a while, but eventually he nodded slightly.

"Your idea indeed is not a bad one. I will have to think of this, sister-son. I'll send a word when I've come to a conclusion", Théoden said at last. In an ideal situation, he'd have agreed to it right away and had the things moving, but Éomer understood he had to be patient.

So he had returned to Aldburg and waited for a word from his uncle... only, the King more than took his time with the matter.

In the meantime, the Marshal concentrated on what he did best: fought orcs, rode to battles, protected his people. Perhaps it was a strange way of thinking but in a fight there was kind of a calm. He didn't have to think of anything except the survival of his men and the people he was guarding.

It was the long hours in Aldburg, the hours of night, that he feared. Those were the times he'd have to stop and endure the doubts and fear and yearning. Yet they were also times he'd see _her, _for she frequented his dreams... sometimes they were sweet, sometimes dark. And waking up was always hard.

To the great joy of Éowyn and Éothain he had tried to mend his ways at least: no more reckless dalliances with ladies of questionable reputation. Lothíriel deserved more than that, and he'd no longer dishonour her by trying to seek her from women who could not compete with her. But there were nights when he was weak, and long he'd sit staring into his mug of ale, even though he very well knew that drinking had never healed any broken heart or helped a lover wasting away.

And other nights he'd stand on the front of the house that had seen the rule of his ancestors and his long-dead father and was now his seat, where he hoped she'd live with him one day... he'd stare off towards White Mountains, imagine the lands of Gondor and the city in the Bay of Belfalas. If he closed his eyes, he could see her walking by the sea, even if he had never seen sea before. Well, the most vivid thing about that image was Lothíriel anyway, and the waters she traced with her white feet were not much greater than Entwash.

But the longing was bad, even worse than before his last visit. It was no wonder, for now he knew her name and so many other things: the taste of her skin, her warmth, the way she writhed in passion and pleasure... how she'd smile or laugh or cry, or how the syllables of his name rolled from her tongue, and how the very canvas of life was painted gold and silver just by her presence. How could one, having experienced this happiness, not want more?

However, it was not just Lothíriel and the thousand things that made up _her _that he remembered. There was also the stinging memory of Imrahil's refusal.

_You're not worthy of my daughter._

He'd look around himself and the town of Aldburg. He'd see the familiar houses, built of wood and decorated with it, carvings and rugs and tapestries of wool... it was nothing compared to the fine palace he had visited in Mundburg. If Imrahil ever came here, he'd look around and be happy that he had not let his daughter come to live in this place.

And yet... even as Éomer knew the seat of his ancestors was but a small thing compared to the splendour of the stone cities of south, he was proud of it. It was not much, it was no palace, but it was _home. _What was important was knowing that Lothíriel would not have scorned it.

Time went on and though he visited in Edoras Uncle never spoke of what Éomer had suggested upon his return from Gondor. Couple of times he asked if the King had given it any thought, but Théoden just answered he was considering it... and the Marshal had understood that for now, pestering his uncle would not help the matter at all.

All he could was to just wait.

* * *

_November 3017, Minas Tirith_

Eventually Father agreed to let Lothíriel come back to the White City. She suspected it was more because he was feeling lonely than actually thinking she had learned her lesson, and she tried to be on her best behaviour. Sulking and silence had not changed anything... but perhaps if she gave in at least a little bit, Father would in turn relent and reconsider what he had decided when it came to Éomer.

But though she behaved as well as she could, it was obvious Father didn't quite trust her like he had before. Instead, he insisted she now take a guard with herself whenever she went out of the house, be it for the markets or the royal library or just a ride. She wondered if it was because he thought she'd escape otherwise... the thought was tempting, but she knew what he'd assume it was to North she'd head if she made any move as to try and set herself free. Lothíriel even suspected there was a rider ready at all times, prepared to hurry to Rohan and demand the Lord of the Rohirrim to surrender her the moment she made an appearance.

Obviously, Éomer and the chance that she might try to seek him by herself had scared her father.

Often she did dream of doing just that – taking a horse and riding away, looking for a way to the Mark of the Riders, and find Éomer there... but though her heart had these wild longings, her head knew that in truth the only thing she'd ever find was death. Living so close to the Citadel and overhearing the many things her father was concerned with had long since alarmed her that shadows were growing and all roads were now full of dangers. Perhaps with Éomer she'd have dared to defy the fates... but alone she was too weak, too scared.

That day was ordinary as any other, and she had busied herself with sewing a new pair of leggings for her riding skirt. Sewing was not her strongest skill but like she had told Cuileth she knew the basics. And anyway, Lothíriel had long ago decided she'd rather learn to make her leggings by herself rather than continue to shock the Gondorian tailors and seamstresses with such a request.

There was a knock on the door and she nearly stung herself with the needle, and she looked up from her work.

"Come in", she called and Father stepped in.

"Hello, daughter", he greeted her. He was smiling but as usually on these days his smile seemed to have a kind of an edge.

"Father", she answered, nodding her head. "What is it?"

"Your uncle asked us to join him on a dinner this evening. I hope you don't have anything planned?" he said, and she refrained on making comments on how she _never _had anything planned these days.

"It's fine. Of course we should go", she said softly, laying aside her needlework.

"Good. I'll send him a word we'll come", said Father. He fell silent then, and studied her silently for a moment. He asked, "How do you feel today, daughter?"

She shrugged.

"Not any different than usual", she said dismissively. It wasn't hard to guess what was on her father's mind, but they had already had enough of conversations about _that. _

He frowned, apparently not too happy about her answer. But he didn't pursue the matter, and after hovering awkwardly at the doorway for a while he turned and left. Lothíriel sighed and looked down on her hands. She hated how things had turned out with her father, but she had no idea of how to fix this.

When the day turned into evening, she bathed and picked up one of her better gowns. Even if he was kin one could not attend to a dinner with Lord Denethor looking like she had crawled from the gutter.

It was around sunset when she and Father left for the Citadel. The way was made in silence, and with some unhappiness she noted how uncomfortable the silence between them had become. But though she had done her best to be there for him after the passing of her mother, she didn't have enough of _her _in herself to know how to handle him in a situation like this.

Uncle Denethor received them in his private dining chamber. It was considered a great honour if he invited one for a dinner, but as he had so many concerns it wasn't really so often that he did. Still, the table was laden with fine silverware and porcelain already, and after the greetings had been exchanged they settled down to eat.

During the main course Uncle finally dropped that fire-bomb Lothíriel had not known to expect. Up until then, he had been talking with Father about everyday matters of the realm – nothing of which had prepared her for what he did say when he finally focused his sharp, blue-grey eyes on her.

"So, Lothíriel, how are you faring these days?" he asked at last.

"I'm fine, Lord Uncle, thank you", she said in that demure fashion she knew was expected here.

"Your father tells me you have been on a better behaviour lately" - she had to hold back a grimace - "and I am quite glad to hear that. The unfortunate episode with that Rohirric fellow left me worried for you", said Uncle.

"It was unfortunate, yes", she said evenly, though Lothíriel knew their reasons for thinking so was entirely different.

"Well, I'm happy that it is all put behind us now", Denethor said. He continued, "Speaking of Rohan, I have been as of late in correspondence with an adviser to King Théoden. This Lord Gríma of Rohan has made an attractive proposition in his letters, and I have thought of it much lately."

"What does he write?" Father asked.

"He suggests renewing our old alliance by the way of marriage. I admit I was doubtful at first, especially remembering the incident with the Marshal, but the developments in the lands have made me reconsider Lord Gríma's offer. It would be wise to take this to account, I believe", Denethor said, picking up his glass of wine. Father frowned.

"And whose hand does he offer in marriage, and to whom?" he asked. Lothíriel could tell he didn't like this topic, and neither did she.

"The bridegroom would be Prince Théodred. And the bride our own Princess Lothíriel here", said the Steward calmly.

Father looked just as shocked as Lothíriel felt. For the longest time, neither she or him could talk, and eventually Uncle spoke again.

"I know this comes as a surprise. Perhaps it was wrong that I have considered this in silence. But I do not think it is a bad idea at all... even though I do understand your aversion, Imrahil. However, this is not quite the same as the situation with the Marshal. For one, a marriage between Lothíriel and Prince Théodred would mean one day she'll be established as a queen. That day may be soon, as King Théoden is not getting any younger", Denethor said, offering a smile to his two relatives.

"Denethor, you know I do not like the idea of sending my daughter so far away", Father said at last when he had recovered from his surprise and shock.

"Yes, I am aware. But Imrahil, this is not a time for us to consider our personal happiness and sensibilities. The marriage of your daughter to a Rohirric prince could do much good. Moreover, giving a hand of a princess in marriage to the heir of their throne would, I believe, smooth any ruffled feathers caused by the Marshal's bold proposal... no doubt he has given an unfavourable account of ourselves to his King. He's a relative of Théoden after all, so he may very well have a strong idea of his importance. We shouldn't give an impression that we think the nobility of Rohirrim, hmm, _unfit _for our high-born ladies", said the Steward in a thoughtful voice.

"But Uncle, if a marriage _should _be, then wouldn't it be wisest if it was between myself and Lord Éomer? He too is related to King Théoden. It means he's a powerful man in his land. And I've met him already and I'd be happy as his wife", Lothíriel said quickly. Here was her chance!

However, Uncle shook his head.

"No, Lothíriel. That man is trouble. Lord Gríma has written me of him and tells me that though Lord Éomer is indisputably a great warrior he is also unreliable. Lord Gríma says he is aggressive and reckless and hungry for the position of Prince Théodred as the heir to the throne. Not only that, but there is also a word of his reputation of a drinker and a womanizer. Altogether this Marshal sounds like a dangerous rascal", Denethor said, his voice dripping with contempt. "I'm quite happy your father refused his proposal, as your married life together would have no doubt lead into your disgrace."

"He's not like that! Those are lies, though I have no idea why someone would have a reason to speak badly of him!" Lothíriel said heatedly. No, that was not Éomer at all! She had seen him, the true him – the brave and considerate man who looked at her like she was the most precious thing he had ever seen.

"Lord Galdegir did report this Marshal assaulted him on the night of the ball. Does that sound like a good man to you, Lothíriel?" Uncle asked. That nearly had her jumping up and screaming.

"He only touched Galdegir because I was in trouble! Or didn't Father tell you of how Galdegir drugged me and Elbereth knows what else he'd have done if Éomer hadn't come to prevent him?" she seethed. Denethor frowned.

"Accusing a fine and high-born lord like Galdegir of drugging you is a serious thing. I'm sure you're just exaggerating what happened, Lothíriel. You had both had too much wine and he behaved improperly, but that is the extent of it. In any case Lord Éomer's reaction was out of line", he said calmly, as if talking to a child.

"No! You weren't there, Uncle – you didn't see him! Galdegir did drug me and he did have ill intentions for me!" Lothíriel exclaimed. She looked at the Prince opposite herself, "Please, Father! You must believe me. And you must tell no! I don't want to marry some man I don't know, Prince or not!"

"Daughter, your uncle does have the right to decide about your marriage, considering he's the highest authority in the land", Father said awkwardly. "And he's right that politically thinking it would be wise to strengthen the ties between our realms..."

She almost thought that was all he'd say about the matter, but he continued, "However, I would have to voice my objection, Denethor, if Lothíriel herself is unwilling. We are not he heathen lords of old who sold their daughters like they were nothing more than goods to be exchanged between men of power."

"Well, that is most grievous, for I have already sent an official invitation to the Prince Théodred. I've called him here, to get acquainted with the Princess. He's due to arrive in next spring", said the Steward with a tone of finality.

At that, Lothíriel finally lost it. She jumped on her feet and screamed from the top of her lungs: "You can't make me do this! And I swear to you most solemnly, if you try to make me marry a man I don't want, I will go mad and jump in the sea, with the grave purpose of drowning myself!"

She didn't know if the shock on the faces of her father and uncle were because her voice had deafened them or if it was her words, but they sat frozen. As for herself, she turned around and escaped the chamber like a bird trying for freedom.

* * *

There was really only one place in the Citadel she could even think of going to.

At this time of evening there weren't many servants around, and the library and archives were quiet when she dashed through the space, her skirts gathered for her run. Into the old vault she sped, and then as soon as she had the secret door open, she began climbing the staircase. She made fast way – so fast that she was gasping for air when she reached the chamber on the top. But the stinging feeling in her side was a welcome distraction.

And there she collapsed, on those pillows she had last lain on with _him_... she hadn't come here since, because she had thought the sight of this place of their secret passion would hurt.

Well, it did hurt. That she had expected. But somehow it was also a comfort, because it reminded her of the truth. They had been together here, and here she had understood that no distance and no boundaries could ever tear her heart apart from his. Here she had been his own... perhaps it was just her imagination but she thought his scent still clung to the pillows.

The tears came then, born of anger and frustration and hurt. Lothíriel saw it now: she was nothing but a pawn in that game her father and uncle played against terrible forces, and her life and her feelings mattered not. Oh, how unfair it was!

Of course she should have known something like this would happen sooner or later. She was a princess and Uncle wasn't going to let her stay in the pocket of her father forever... but why did any of it have to go like this? Why did she have to fall in love with someone whom the fates ever pushed away from her?

And those things Denethor had said about Éomer... none of it could be true, could it? For a moment there was a horrible dread in her mind, that it had all been just a play and an act because he wanted to bed the delicate, gullible princess... and the next time she'd see him he'd laugh at her and ask what she had expected.

No, he wasn't like that. There was no such treacherousness in Éomer – he was honest and genuine and he loved her. She knew it, when she pulled away the sleeve of her gown and looked at the bracelet she had worn ever since the day he had fastened it there. What Denethor had heard were lies, she knew it. To what end they were spewed she didn't know... and it worried her to know that King Théoden's own adviser would write things like that. A sense of foreboding came to her: something bad was brewing in the land of Rohan. What would it mean for her beloved, then? Was he in danger and did he know of it?

The ache of not knowing what was the truth and if the one she loved was safe was bad, and she felt weak and helpless for not having any way of trying to fix this... of helping _him. _

But as Lothíriel sat up and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, she knew she had to soldier on. Giving up was not an option, and she had to trust him to take care of himself.

Moreover, what Uncle had planned for her was not something she could change by escaping from it. No, she had to face the beast and hold her ground. Prince Théodred was Éomer's cousin, after all. Surely the man would understand why the plans of King's adviser and the Steward could not come true? If the Prince was at all like his cousin, he'd do what was right – he'd help them, somehow.

One more moment Lothíriel took to gather her strength and calm. Then she rose from the pillows and rearranged her skirts.

They would see this princess did not yield quite so easily.

* * *

_March 3018, Minas Tirith_

"Béma's beard. Now there is something you don't see every day."

Prince Théodred of Rohan was marvelling the sight of the White City of Kings, his grey eyes wide and full of wonder. He appeared to have forgotten they had been on road for a week now and the men and horses were in the sore need of rest and food. But Éomer could not blame his cousin, for his own reaction when he had first come to this city about two years ago now had been similar.

Granted, he did feel enthusiasm for the prospect of seeing a beloved face here... but the yearning for his sweet Nightingale was shadowed by the many concerns. Not smallest of those was the web spun by Wormtongue: this travel had in grand designs but one purpose, and that was to engage the Princess of Dol Amroth to the Crown Prince of Rohan. Moreover, Éomer knew he would not be a welcome guest here.

However, his cousin had given his word neither of those concerns should turn out worth all the time he had spent worrying about them.

"I know you have great love for this lady, and I don't want to come in between the two of you. I'll speak of it with Lord Denethor as soon as I get a chance. But I couldn't really refuse this invitation, not when Father insists on it as well. Anyway it's an opportunity for you to see again your lady love... and don't worry about what they'll say when they see you. I'll say you're here on my personal request, and we come and leave the city together", Théodred had said calmingly.

Still, the Marshal wondered how it all would turn out – even if he was happy to know he had at last an ally in his cousin.

Théodred had been on his side from the beginning. He and Éowyn had been there to restrain him when he had gone slightly mad at hearing what Gríma Wormtongue was planning, for which Éomer was thankful as soon as he calmed down. The Prince had no wish to marry a stranger and even less he wished to interfere with the relationship of his cousin with the Princess, and so he had insisted he'd do all he could to change the course of things. Lord Denethor's invitation had to be accepted, however... and so one day of early March they had left for the White City, and the Marshal's heart had beaten an unsteady pace when he had thought of all the things that could go wrong... and all the things that could go _right. _

And now they were here, and Mundburg stood there before them. Théodred was still admiring the sight of this ancient city, lost in the might and beauty of it.

"I suppose it is beautiful", said Éomer quietly, so that only his cousin heard, "but I have found it cold and unwelcoming."

"But _she _is there", Théodred noted. They urged forward their horses again, but rode side by side as to be able to converse, "So not all of it can be so appalling."

"Aye", Éomer had to agree. "She's the fairest thing in all of Gondor."

The older man smiled at that and the expression on his face was fond.

"She must be, to have you so bewitched. I must say I'm curious to see her now – the woman who conquered you", he said. He couldn't suppress a grin, "The ladies of the Mark will no doubt think her a magical thing, considering she so easily achieved what an entire generation of maidens have failed at so far."

The Marshal snorted at that but couldn't help a small smile.

"You are exaggerating, cousin", he told his kinsman, and Théodred chuckled.

It wasn't long after that they arrived to the great gate of the city, which was readily opened for the riders. From there they made up towards the Citadel, travelling through the paved road that was now more or less familiar to Éomer. As they rode he took note of the sense of foreboding that lay heavier here than before, and he thought he saw less people than during his last visit. He wondered what it meant and hoped perhaps he could find Captain Boromir after their arrival. The Steward's son would hopefully tell him what was afoot in the realm.

At last they reached their destination, and arrived to the Citadel. Surrendering their horses they continued towards the palace, where Lord Denethor awaited them. Observing the faces of stable-hands and couple of servants they passed by, Éomer saw he was recognised. Briefly he wondered if coming here had been a bad idea and if much trouble would follow... but then, he knew he couldn't have stayed behind.

He let Théodred take the lead, as was the older man's right as the Crown Prince. With the easy grace of a man who had grown in the knowledge he would be king one day, Théodred went forward, and his closest men followed.

The Steward received them in the great hall of the palace, sitting on that plain wooden chair at the foot of the throne. A year had passed since Éomer had last seen Lord Denethor and the man remained mostly unchanged, though it seemed new lines of worry had carved themselves on the noble face. But Denethor's eyes burned with the same sharp fire he remembered.

"Prince Théodred", called the Steward as Théoden's heir approached him, "I bid you welcome to Minas Tirith. I am most delighted that you could come, busy as I know you are in your own realm. You are-"

But then he fell silent, for his eyes had fixed on the Third Marshal and the look on his face was not friendly. Only briefly he looked at Éomer however, before turning his eyes again towards Théodred.

"My lord, I fear I must voice my surprise. I did not know to expect that the Lord Marshal should come with you", said the Steward. True to his smooth manners, his voice did not betray any displeasure. But the keen gaze of the Marshal did see that flicker in the grey eyes of Denethor, and he knew he wasn't welcome.

"Lord Steward, I deemed it only appropriate to invite my cousin along, considering he has been here in Gondor before. He is here at my personal request, as my lieutenant and an adviser", Théodred said calmly and with the authority of born royal.

The Steward frowned, but had his reaction quickly under control and unmasked.

"Of course", Denethor said then, evidently recognising this was something Théodred would not make compromises about. However, he did rest his eyes on Éomer and the Marshal read the malcontent in that gaze – something this great lord only tolerated because he still thought Théodred was actually compliant when it came to the plan of engagement.

"Your chambers will be ready in a moment. I imagine you'll wish to freshen up after your long journey?" said the Steward, rising up on his feet. "I'd be honoured if you would join us for a dinner tonight, Prince Théodred. Prince Imrahil and his daughter Lothíriel will be present as well."

"That would be my pleasure, Lord Steward", said Théodred, now offering the Steward one of those easy smiles of his. "We thank you for your hospitality."

When they followed a servant to their chambers, the Prince glanced at his cousin.

"Don't look so grim, old fellow. It's probably for the better you're not reunited quite so soon... this way, I should have a chance to tell her you are here. If you just appeared on the front of her at the dinner, you might both go mad", he said softly. Seeing the sense in the older man's words, Éomer nodded and felt better.

"Aye. You're probably right", he agreed, at which Théodred smiled.

"I am about most things", he said I light tones and the Marshal snorted. But inside, his anxiety was starting to turn into joy.

_I am near, Lothíriel. _

* * *

**A/N:** Here's an update! I swear I have a new chapter of _House of Sun _in the works and I'm hoping to get it ready either tomorrow or the day after it.

I know this chapter moves pretty fast and it's not my favourite piece of writing, but I'd still like to emphasise how this is supposed not to turn into a long story. Of course the time of separation is actually a year-long time but this would soon get out of hand if I spent more time on it, and I believe we're all anxious to have our lovers reunited.

Some of you wondered if the events of the last chapter resulted in a conception of a child, but this did not happen quite obviously; they knew to take their precautions because a child would indeed be a very difficult thing to explain.

As for this chapter, I should note that Denethor has developed an aversion towards Éomer, partly because of what happened the last time he visited Minas Tirith, and partly because of Gríma's lies. Galdegir too has probably made a very convincing case of Éomer's manhandling of him. Wormtongue's influence has certainly not been the best one in this matter and Denethor's distaste may even surpass that of Imrahil. In case you wonder why Gríma would propose a marriage between Théodred and Lothíriel when it wouldn't politically even be the worst idea, I would point out that some of it certainly is because of his personal hatred towards Éomer. But even if such a union would come to take place I don't think Wormtongue would really plan on it to be a long marriage (not to mention Lothíriel's death in suspicious circumstances would do nothing for the alliance between Gondor and Rohan)... and considering the years of war are getting closer now the possibility of Lothíriel giving birth to Théodred's heir is not perhaps as worrisome. What can a young princess and a toddler of a prince do against Saruman, after all?

Thanks for reading and reviewing!

* * *

**Anonymous - **Yes, he definitely supports Éomer/Lothíriel! :D

**Borys68 - **Well, Lothíriel does know it would be unwise to keep noise of what she did, so her father has no idea. In the end (and after calming down) he wouldn't probably even know what to do. But one thing is for sure and it's that even if he didn't love his daughter he'd never sell her as a slave. That would be completely out of character for him.

**Kiiimberly - **Oh, he'd give them hell no doubt.

I'm not yet crazy enough to actually do that. :D

**Ranger - **For the moment it seems like promising to be a very, very uncomfortable situation.

**Talia119 - **Nope, no complications this time. That would perhaps be an interesting twist but it'd also completely change what I've planned to happen later in this story.

As for why Amrothos helps them it's precisely because he doesn't realise that Lothíriel would go so far. He thinks her innocent enough to not go down that road. And why Imrahil would be disrespectful towards a comrade-in-arms it's simply because he values his daughter beyond most things. His reactions in her case are just so emotional.

**anna1991 - **I hope the scene in this chapter answers to that wish! They're both pretty stubborn about this matter, so Imrahil has yet to comprehend her point of view. But perhaps that might change in the near future.


	8. Chapter 8

_Now Beren and Lúthien Tinuviel went free again and together walked through the woods renewing for a time their joy; and though winter came it hurt them not, for flowers lingered where Lúthien went, and the birds sang beneath the snowclad hills. _

_- _Of Beren and Lúthien

* * *

**Chapter 8**

Prince Théodred of Rohan was, truthfully speaking, kind of a nice-looking man. Perhaps he was not quite as comely as his cousin, but he had an easy smile and friendly eyes, which were grey. Dark-haired he was too, though the shade was slightly lighter than what one usually saw in Gondor. Where Éomer had inherited the height of the Men of West, Prince Théodred had their eyes and hair.

When Uncle introduced the two of them Lothíriel was somehow able to summon a smile, though in the back of her mind lived a thought that perhaps she should glare at the man and bite his hand. However, she knew she had to wait and see, for it was entirely possible this man already knew of the relationship between his cousin and her. And anyway, Father had said there was really no way this meeting could be cancelled. Prince Théodred had come all the way from Rohan and he deserved at least a polite welcome.

Still, when she had looked at her father that day Lothíriel had felt that perhaps some of her ire had finally started to work on him. There were times when he'd look at her and seem somehow worried and uncertain, and she hoped her father was starting to understand. It had been almost a year since Éomer had last visited the White City but she had yet to show any signs of giving up on him.

But now his cousin was there on the front of her, and though he had to be almost twice as old as her, he was looking far more sympathetic than she had pictured him in her sour and defiant imaginations.

"It is an honour to meet you, Princess Lothíriel", he greeted her and even gave her a kiss on her knuckles, like a proper courtier.

"Likewise, my lord", she managed; there was just the barest hint of stiffness in her voice.

"We have much looked forward to this moment, Prince Théodred. I at least hope it is the beginnings of a long and lasting alliance", said Uncle, and his words almost turned Lothíriel's smile dour. But she reminded herself he was supposed to say things like that, and anyway it hadn't yet dawned to him that her agreement to come and attend to this dinner didn't mean her surrender.

"Of course. I am glad that you invited me", said the Prince graciously.

"The dinner is not yet set, but perhaps the two of you would enjoy a moment of getting to know each other a bit better?" suggested the Steward.

"That would be a pleasure", Prince Théodred answered and offered Lothíriel his arm. Suppressing a sigh, she placed a hand there and wondered how she'd ever get out of this situation cleanly. After all, for all her hopes she had no idea if this man was willing to step aside for the sake of his cousin. Who knew what he'd think when and if he heard that this princess already reserved her heart for someone who was not a prince?

The Rohir lead her to the side of the hall, close to a window. He cast a brief glance around and there was a look in his eyes she didn't really understand. Lothíriel wondered what was going on in his mind but she'd be damned if she'd be the one to start the conversation. She may have promised to her father to attend to this supper and perhaps even talk with the man she was supposed to marry, but that was really the extent of what she was willing to do.

However, Prince Théodred was evidently quite oblivious to all this... and what he said took her by surprise.

"My lady, I do not believe in idle and purposeless talk, so I will just go straight to what I have in mind. I have some news for you, but I must ask you to remain calm", he said softly. Now that surprised her even more, but at his words she did all she could to force a vaguely interested look on her face.

"What is it, my lord?" she asked in a low voice. At last a smile came to the face of the Rohirric prince.

"Éomer is here. He came with me, and he sends his regards", he said and his voice was little more than a whisper.

The princess had to turn and bite her knuckles in order not to squeal or perhaps shriek. Éomer had come! Oh, this had to be a dream, for she had not dared to hope something so wonderful might happen after what her Uncle had arranged.

"My lady, are you all right?" asked the prince, noticing her emotional turmoil.

"I am. I'm fine", she breathed and gave him a beaming smile, "Your news have just made me very happy."

"You have missed my cousin greatly?" he asked softly.

"More than I could ever tell you, my lord. The mere idea that he's so close... it'll be a wonder indeed if I'm able to sit through the dinner", she said and let out a small laugh that sounded just a bit hysterical. She even wondered half-seriously if her father and uncle would mind too much if she just ran away right now...

Prince Théodred answered her smile now.

"To be honest, I did consider telling some of my men to tie him up, lest he comes here to look for you. My cousin has missed you as well... I do not think he was ever the same since he first visited this city and met you. And I now see the reason for it, Lady Princess", he said gently. "The moment I saw you, I understood why you have my cousin so under your spell."

"Just like he has me", Lothíriel said softly, thinking of the fiery dark eyes that she'd hopefully see soon... shaking herself, she cast a more focused look at the prince, "My lord, could I perhaps ask you to speak in Éomer's favour to Lord Denethor my uncle?"

"Of course. I already promised him that I'd do what I can", Théodred promised. "Oh, I almost forgot. He asks if he could see you, perhaps as soon as tonight?"

"Tell him to come to the stables around midnight. I'll try and sneak out... there are only so many places and times you can meet someone in private if the general opinion is that you should not be together", she sighed. A sympathetic look came to the Rohir's face.

"Despair not, my lady. As they say in my land: 'where there is will, there is a way'", he said in comforting tones. He smiled, "In other words, if you're stubborn enough you'll get what you want."

"Valar bless the Rohirrim!" Lothíriel could but say, unable to hold back her giggles.

Their conversation came to an end then as the dinner was served, and the retinue took their seats around the table. For the princess it took quite the strength of character to be able to sit still and even occasionally take part in the discussions; her mind was with the man she had not seen in a year. But now their reunion was at hand again, and the moment she'd find him in her arms again could not come soon enough.

When she and her father returned home that night, he cast a hopeful glance at her.

"You seemed to get along very well with the Prince", he commented tentatively. Lothíriel gave him a brilliant smile.

"Oh, that was because he told me that Éomer is here, and promised to talk with uncle about which in truth would be the best arrangement when it comes to my hand in marriage", she told him. There was no point in hiding it, was there?

Father frowned and a troubled look came to his face, but he wasn't angry.

"I should have known", he muttered and shook his head.

"Would it really be so bad to at least give him a chance, Father?" she asked him.

"Daughter, haven't we had this conversation enough times already? You know what is my stance", he said tiredly. Now it was her turn to frown.

"And you know mine", she told him and spoke no more on their way home. To herself she wondered how this would turn out... and shivered.

* * *

At this point, the whole sneaking out thing went far smoother than any proper princess should ever be able. Perhaps it had also something to do with how lately it had seemed that Father had cut her some slack... though she could but wonder how it'd turn out now that Éomer was in the city again. Certainly if Father knew how easily she could slip out of the house he might have placed guards under her very window.

On her way to the Citadel guards stopped her – that thing had changed at least – but she had made some implications about having certain womanly pains and so was in the need of assistance from the Houses of Healing, and the guards let her go along. As far as Lothíriel could tell, men were frightened by these things... and especially the fury of women.

But before she reached the stables, a fear took a hold of her heart: what if he wouldn't be there? What if she went there only to have her expectation proved in vain? Oh, she had waited for him an entire year, and now it felt like each moment ticking by turned the pain of his absence worse...

At last she entered and instantly her seeking eyes saw him.

There he was, standing by the stall of his horse... but at the sound of her feet, he turned around. Though it was night and the stables were dim, there was enough light for her to see his face and the look of happiness on his features. But then she was on the front of him and she threw herself in his arms.

Oh, his arms! That familiar solid form was there against her once more, and there was _so much: _his scent, the way he held her, the feel of his hair and beard and skin... having him there was like coming home.

Words were not needed, not quite yet. He seemed to feel the same way, as he spoke not – only held her tight. The longest time was spent just so in silence, until the princess tiptoed and pressed her lips on his.

Lothíriel was out of breath and thinking of things that could potentially have very ruinous results by the time the kiss ended. When she pulled back to gasp for some air, she could see that he too had something similar tempting him, but somehow Éomer was able to hold himself in line.

"Missed you", he hoarsely uttered.

"As I did you", she answered. "You've been gone far too long."

"Aye", he agreed and pulled her into another kiss.

It took a while before greetings had been properly exchanged. They might have continued even longer, but the amount of time was not endless and some words ought to be exchanged.

"How long are you going to be here this time?" she asked at last, though she made no gesture as to move away from his arms.

"Only for a week or so. Both my cousin and myself are needed back in Rohan – we can't tarry here for too long", Éomer answered. Only a week! How she had hoped she might have him close for a longer time. Yet she understood why that was: both the Prince and the Marshal had better things to do in their own land. And in the end, one week was better than nothing.

"Théodred told you what he intends?" asked her beloved.

"He did. He said he's going to talk with Lord Denethor about it", said the princess. She worried her lip, "Do you think he might succeed in persuading my uncle?"

"You tell me. You know the Steward better than I do", Éomer answered quietly. "I wonder how easy it will be, now that my uncle the King has decided to support Gríma Wormtongue's idea..."

"Who is that man anyway? Uncle Denethor spoke of him, and he had said all these horrible things about you... why would anyone spew such things?" she asked.

Something angry came to the face of the Marshal. A flash of hatred was in his dark eyes and she could feel the tension in his body, but quickly he had his emotions again under control.

"Gríma Wormtongue is an adviser to my uncle. He has been in that position for some years now, and ever his influence over the King grows... he's not a good man, Lothíriel. I can't prove anything but I believe he's working for a greater master – a wizard we once thought our friend. He's trying to subdue our realm by weakening our king", Éomer explained in a strained voice and his frown deepened, "I can't say for sure what he means to achieve by having Théodred marry you, other than to drive me out of my mind. Then again, that would suit him well I suppose."

"So he has convinced my uncle that you're trouble – a drunkard who chases after women and whatnot", she said. Oh, had that so called lord been here now, he'd have found needles in various unpleasant places!

"The worst thing is his lies have a touch of truth. For before our meeting last year, I was... I did not behave too well back in Rohan. I was trying to forget you, like you told me to, though my methods were not too good", he said and a shadow fell on his face. His words might have had a stronger impact on her had she not seen the self-disgust in his eyes. The Rohir sighed, "I swear I've changed my ways since then, and I have no other ruler than yourself, my dear princess. If you trust nothing else, then trust my constancy to you."

"I do. I've never doubted it, beloved", she told him, which seemed to bring him some solace. But then he buried his face in her hair and let out a heavy breath.

"Sweet Lothíriel... I fear your father was right. I don't deserve you and your love", he murmured. Gently, she lifted his face so that she could see his eyes. She gave him a gentle smile.

"Let me be the judge of that", said the princess. Her words eased his expression and Éomer answered her smile. Some more kissing took place, and by the end of it she felt mended. He was here, and though the fates might again take him away from her soon, she decided not to worry about it now. And who knew? Maybe this time things would go smoother.

"Will I see you tomorrow?" she asked then.

"Perhaps I can arrange something with my cousin. Can you at least come here at nightfall?" he asked back.

"I'm not sure. I need to be careful, lest someone finds out I've been sneaking out of my father's house", Lothíriel answered.

"Of course", he said softly, resting a hand on her cheek. The look in those dark eyes of his was very warm and soft, and he said, "You look tired, dear one. You ought to go and have some rest."

"But that would mean having to let go of you, and... I can't do that just yet. Not when you've been away for an entire year", Lothíriel murmured. He made a noise that sounded like an agreement and her dear Rohir held her a bit tighter.

"I promise we'll find some way", he whispered and kissed her once more, and for the moment she believed him.

* * *

An entire week was spent in the social gatherings that – at least if you asked Lord Denethor – had but one purpose: to familiarise the Crown Prince of Rohan with the Princess of Dol Amroth, and upon his departure to announce that in a year or two's time a marriage would take place between the two.

However, as the days went by it became more clear that he was really the only one who wholeheartedly supported this idea. Prince Théodred was always courteous and charming when he interacted with Lothíriel, but he showed no interest of _that kind _in her, and anyway he'd always bring his cousin along, if he was able. If Éomer was present, there was but one person Lothíriel had eyes for.

The Marshal shared the sentiment, and Prince Imrahil observed this with what Lothíriel recognised as growing concern. As for what grew for her uncle, it was frustration and even indignation. But as Prince Théodred was a born royal and the son of King Théoden, there was not really any polite way Lord Denethor could have told him not to take his cousin with him to the occasions that had been planned to make him familiar to the Princess.

However, once the Prince did confess to her if it had been such a good idea to bring along the Marshal.

"I have indeed tried to speak of these matters with your uncle, but he is best described as unresponsive. It feels like each word of Éomer makes the Steward more opposed to him, to the point where it is not even a rational emotion anymore... he firmly believes the lies of Gríma Wormtongue, though I've done my best to make clear how untruthful those words were", Théodred said and shook his head. "My lady, if you allow such an observation, it doesn't seem to me like your uncle admires boldness in any other man than himself, and perhaps his son the Captain Boromir."

These words of Théodred did trouble her, but Lothíriel had no idea of how to undo what damage had already been done in the matter of her potential marriage to Éomer. When she spoke of these things with her beloved, he said even the most stubborn man must give in eventually if all the odds are against him.

"Would you give in then?" she asked him quietly and he couldn't answer. Increasingly she wondered if eloping indeed was the only way she could ever share a life with him.

There were also moments that brought her hope. One of those times was when Prince Théodred invited her for a ride, and asked her father to accompany them as well. Apparently Father didn't have it in himself to reject the invitation, and so a very pleasant afternoon was spent outside. Some of the Rohirric company even went as far as performing some riding tricks for them, and the two cousins were charming as ever. Lothíriel even spied her father looking troubled at times, like he didn't quite know what to think. When they went home that day he was very quiet but she could tell the outing had given him much food for thought.

But the best of this all was when she was able to sneak away and find her dear Marshal in the shadows. Together they'd sit and speak of their lives, of Gondor and Rohan, and of a future together. He'd tell her of Aldburg, where he hoped to bring her one day with him, and the warm tones of Éomer's voice took her far away to the land of Rohan. It was like a dream, to imagine a life there...

One such time, she asked him: "Do you think your people would welcome a princess among them?"

"As my wife? I don't see why they wouldn't. Though I wonder if they'd ever get used to you – Marshals don't usually wed high Gondorian princesses, you see. When Éothain heard of you, he said only I could be so deranged as to fall in love with a lady of your standing", said Éomer with a slight smile. "But then, they say the men of my line were born with more north in their veins than most."

"Is that a nice way of saying you are all lunatics?" Lothíriel asked sweetly, at which he growled in mock offence, and he imprisoned her under himself for a long kiss.

However, these sweet moments were fleeting, and soon the week was over... and this brief abandon ended in a banquet where she was meant to be engaged to a man she didn't want.

* * *

Just before the banquet, Théodred came to see if his cousin was ready for the night's socialising. When he came Éomer had just finished trimming his beard and the final look in the mirror had confirmed what he knew anyway: there was nothing one could really do about the _northenness _of his appearance. But then, why should he change what he was?

"Are you done polishing yourself already?" asked his cousin good-humouredly when he let the older man in.

"Hmph. You're not the one who has yet to convince a stubborn man that you're not a crazy drunkard whose only interest in his kinswoman is defiling her", snorted the Marshal.

"Surely he doesn't think so badly of you", Théodred tried, but the younger man gave him a glare that very much spoke _don't go there. _The prince sighed, but still accepted a glass of wine from his cousin. He took a sip of it and then regarded Éomer with that face which usually meant business.

"I was thinking maybe it'd be good if we are tonight on our very best behaviour. Be very charming and polite, that sort of thing. I don't know if it will have any immediate effect, but I believe we should leave a good parting impression of ourselves. It might help the Steward and the Prince Imrahil to change their minds", he said

"It won't help with Théoden, though", said the Marshal, frowning as he spoke.

"Maybe not, but if Lord Denethor was inclined to consider an arrangement where you're the bridegroom to the Princess, Father would have to check his stance too", Théodred pointed out.

"Aye", Éomer agreed, but he didn't still feel untroubled. He looked down, "I'm not quite sure how I should be able to leave her yet again."

His cousin placed a hand on his shoulder and gave him a sympathetic look.

"You're not going to give up, are you?" asked the Prince. At that the younger man even managed a smile of sorts.

"Of course not. The day I do that they may as well bury me", he said. Théodred smiled as well now and patted his shoulder.

"That is the spirit, cousin", he said warmly. When he continued, his tone was a bit more serious though, "Perhaps you should try and talk with the Steward tonight? Have some pleasant small talk with him? It wouldn't hurt you to get into better terms with the man."

"You know idle talk is not my strength", Éomer pointed out, "but I will try. I promise Lord Denethor will find no fault in my conduct."

He sighed, "This all comes so naturally to you, Théodred. I envy you."

His cousin smiled ruefully, "After all the years Father has tried to teach me about being a king, it would be a shame if nothing had stuck with me."

"Aye. Perhaps I could ask him to teach me too – if only to make it easier to deal with these Gondorian lords", mused the Marshal.

"It's never too late to start and learn", Théodred said gently. "But for the record, I think you're doing just fine. You needn't turn into a Gondorian, after all. If you did, they might kick you out of the Mark."

That made the younger man snort and he tried to look unimpressed, but a smile fought its way on his face anyway.

"And I can't even tell who would be the most shocked", he chortled. Straightening his coat for one last time, Éomer cast a look at his cousin, "Are we ready to go?"

"That we are, cousin", said the Prince, and the two started for the banquet hall. But upon entering the Marshal froze, for his eyes fell on a familiar and an unwanted face. There at the other side was none other than Lord Galdegir, the shameless man who had assaulted Lothíriel; his hands became fists as he tried to not to give in to the urge of doing something rash. Théodred had noticed something was wrong of course, and the older man looked at him in concern.

"What is it, Éomer?" he asked quietly.

"That man over there – the last time I was here, he'd have had his way with the Princess had I not happened upon them in the garden", he hissed through his teeth. "How can they let a man like him walk free? Or allow him so close to her?"

"You have to calm down. I told you we need to be on our best behaviour here", Théodred said quickly, but keeping his voice down too. "I'm sure you're right about him but we can't impose our own justice on high-born Gondorians."

"Then who will, if we won't do anything?" Éomer asked angrily.

"Let it go for now. I'll talk with the Steward about it", said the Prince.

"Fine. But if he dares to talk to me, I'm not going to be responsible for what I might do", grumbled the younger man and turned his eyes from the so called lord.

The gathering didn't take place in the great hall this time, which was obviously because the amount of guests was also smaller this time. Even so, Lord Denethor was not a man to act niggardly. The banquet consisted of seven courses and each dish was grander than the one before it, and there was even a small band of musicians playing songs through the dinner.

But there was one thing much fairer than all the others, and that was the Princess of Dol Amroth. The white and silver of her gown went beautifully with her clear skin and dark hair, and he found it difficult not to stare at her. At times she'd glance at him too, and this sweet little smile would appear on her face. Seated beside her father she was too far for any conversation... but then, all necessary things were conveyed by those stolen glances. Looking at her there, he knew it'd be painful to return to Rohan without her.

The banquet came to an end eventually, and the guests moved to another hall to enjoy some drinks and light conversation. Éomer first thought of seeking the company of Lothíriel, but he decided to leave that for the later – not only because it was one thing he could expect to be pleasant, and that might be what he'd need once he had talked with the Steward.

Lord Denethor looked somewhat tired when the Marshal approached him. That was no wonder: the man had many concerns these days, and organising this banquet had probably only added to his burden. Suddenly, a sense of guilt came to the Rohir. The Steward had hoped to secure the alliance between their realms and this gathering was meant to celebrate it by the means of an engagement... yet that plan had proved in vain.

He pushed those thoughts out of his mind and bowed his head as a greeting.

"My lord Steward", he said, "I wanted to thank you for this evening, and for your hospitality for the last week."

"It was an honour. I should only ever wish that our friends from Rohan feel welcome here in our city", said the man smoothly.

"Of course", Éomer agreed. He fell silent then, considering to himself what he should tell this high lord. He'd have to choose his words carefully, that much was clear. He continued, "My lord, I'd have you know that I am very sorry for the unpleasant developments of my last visit here in Minas Tirith. It wasn't my intention to cause trouble or offend yourself or the Prince Imrahil."

Lord Denethor turned to consider him sharply; what moved in his mind the young Marshal could not tell. It felt unpleasant to humble himself so when one could hardly say he had done something wrong by these men, but he'd be damned if he let his pride get on the way of ensuring a better relationship with the Steward... and thus improving the chances of a marriage between him and his dear Princess.

"I'm glad to hear that, Lord Marshal. Perhaps I spoke harshly as well, but you must understand I have to listen to the words of Prince Imrahil, and anyway his daughter is my own kinswoman as well. She's young and naïve after all, and needs our protection", said Denethor.

There was much there Éomer would rather have liked to object to, but he kept his opinions to himself. Yet to himself he wondered if Lothíriel's relatives might ever see her clearly, not just as something fragile and in the need of such overbearing guard.

"I know you have only the best intentions in your mind, my lord", he said carefully. If he something loathed was not being able to speak out his mind, the way he was used to... but he had spent enough time in Gondor to understand it was not the best approach always.

The Steward nodded and seemed satisfied.

"It is good to see we have an understanding. I would not leave ill feelings between ourselves, my lord", he said graciously. Then he went on to ask about some news of his home in Aldburg, and the conversation wasn't actually too unpleasant, though Éomer never really lowered his guard.

At last there was also a chance to seek the company of Lothíriel, and when he made his way to her she was conversing with an elderly but formidable looking lady. At the sight of him a smile came to her face and her eyes lit up.

"My lord Marshal", she greeted him, "Here's Lady Menelwen, who is second cousin to my late mother. Lady, this is Marshal Éomer of Rohan, kinsman of Prince Théodred whom you already met."

"It's a great honour, my lord", said the lady and nodded towards the Rohir.

"Likewise, Lady", he answered. He had hoped to catch Lothíriel alone but that would probably have to wait for now.

"I seem to recall talk that this is not your first time here in Minas Tirith, my lord?" asked the old lady.

"You remember correctly. I have been sent here before to aid Lord Denethor's sons on their war campaigns", he answered.

"But you weren't here with that purpose this time, Lord Marshal?" she inquired.

"No. The matter was of more diplomatic nature this time", Éomer answered. Suddenly, he felt a bit uneasy, and he wasn't sure where this conversation was going.

"I see", Lady Menelwen said, taking a sip of white wine from her glass. "I hope you don't mind my curiosity. It has been the talk of the city, you see. Rohirrim come here so rarely these days."

"It's a pity that our friendship has so diminished. I think we could learn a lot from each other, if we just strengthened our ties", Lothíriel put in. The older woman glanced at her thoughtfully.

"How do you propose this be achieved?" she asked. Her tone couldn't exactly be called sharp, but her glance was definitely so.

"Invite our Rohirric friends here more often, for one. My uncle at least has made good effort already when he has asked for riders", said the Princess smoothly. She continued, "My cousin Lord Boromir at least has only praises for the Marshal and his men."

"Don't you think something more peaceable could be invented as well to strengthen these ties, like you said?" inquired Lady Menelwen.

"Prince Théodred my cousin at least spoke of establishing a more frequent trading relationship", Éomer commented.

"I hear that the Rohirric wool and leather are the best you can find in the free kingdoms", Lothíriel said then. She smiled, "Between the three of us, the moment I saw that green cloak of the Prince, I thought of stealing it. I don't think I've ever seen a garment so lovely."

"Knowing him, Lady Princess, he'd probably give it to you if you just asked", said the Rohir with a half-smile. Indeed, that was something Théodred would do. "On the other hand, I have a feeling all of our company would give you all cloaks you could ever hope for, and not even notice the cold for the happiness of bringing joy to a Princess."

Then Lothíriel asked of the making of Rohirric cloaks, and the conversation turned to directions that didn't dance around the unspoken matter of "political marriage". Captain Boromir joined them too and the Marshal even found he enjoyed himself – something he had not expected. But then she said she was feeling thirsty, and Éomer readily offered to go and fetch them drinks. She gave him a smile and he made his way through the crowd towards where the refreshments were being served.

He was halfway there when an unexpected and altogether unpleasant voice spoke from his right, and a hand on his arm had him halting.

"My lord Marshal. I do not believe I had yet a chance to greet you", Lord Galdegir said, wearing a large charming smile. It instantly roused the Rohir's ire, but he reminded himself of what Théodred had said.

"And now you have greeted me, my lord. If you'd excuse me", he said sharply and tried to move away, but the hand on his arm turned into a grip and Éomer realised he couldn't really exit the scene without some violence.

"Now, my lord, what has you so hateful? I know we did not begin in the best circumstances, but surely that is already forgotten?" Galdegir insisted, and his smile became – if possible – even larger.

"What do you want?" asked the Marshal bluntly.

"I was just thinking how lovely the Princess Lothíriel looks tonight. White and silver really do become her, don't you think? Makes her seem so pure and innocent, like a rose untarnished among the weeds..." said the irritating Gondorian and sighed dramatically. Éomer didn't even bother answering – he just glared at the man before him.

"But the looks can be so deceiving. She has fight in her, the kind her father doesn't even know she has. That's why she caught your eyes too, isn't it?" Galdegir continued, still smiling happily.

"Get to your point or get gone", Éomer hissed.

"There's no reason to be rude, Lord Marshal. But then, I suppose that is to be expected of you Rohirrim? Tell me, have you already taken her, the way you people do up in north? For a tender little princess it must have been quite a wild thing, having a ruthless barbarian bed her... but then, I suppose there's enough of spirit her to like that sort of thing!" Galdegir said and chuckled. The Rohir now stood frozen, but his blood was boiling and all he wanted was to feed this disgusting man to wargs... Théodred's words were starting to get dim now, and fury took their place.

But Galdegir was not quite done yet. With a smirk, he continued: "Don't worry, though. I'll have her, even if she's damaged goods. I don't mind a horse-lord's wench. She'll know I'm her only chance of an honourable marriage anyway, if she ever wants to avoid disgrace. She's a princess, after all, and as a son-in-law to Prince Imrahil one should never want for anything. I'll even beat that wildness out of her!"

That did it. There in the middle of the high lords and ladies of Gondor, Éomer snapped: without one thought he flung his arm towards the face of Galdegir, and there was a sickening crunch when his knuckles came to contact with the man's nose. And as this so called lord fell back on the floor with a cry of pain, a gasp rose in the crowd, but the Marshal was beyond caring. He'd have leaped on the man and Béma knew what would have happened then, but then arms grabbed him from behind, and Théodred and Boromir held him back.

"Let me go! I'll kill him!" he snarled in Rohirric to his cousin, but Théodred's grip was tight.

"Calm down, cousin!" he answered, and the words came as an order like could be expected of an experienced warrior.

That was when Lord Steward came striding to the scene. The look on his face was furious and helped Éomer to sober up, though the two men still held him by his arms.

"What is this supposed to be? By what right do you attack my guests, Marshal?!" Denethor demanded angrily.

"This _man _here spoke disgracefully of the Princess of Dol Amroth. I have no patience for listening to anyone desecrate a lady of her standing!" Éomer snapped and met the Steward's glare with an equally furious gaze. For all he had been forced to temper himself in this court, _this _was not something he'd agree to compromise about!

"Nothing warrants you using violence here in my court, horselord!" Denethor said angrily and glanced at Galdegir, who still sat on the floor and was pressing a handkerchief against his bloodied nose. The Steward said, "We are not going to clear out this here. Get up, Lord Galdegir."

By the time they followed the Steward to a side chamber, Éomer's fury was already turning into cold doubt. Though Galdegir's face was mostly hidden behind the handkerchief, there was a glint in his eyes the Marshal did not like at all. He understood: this was precisely what the accursed man had wanted. Galdegir had known he was hot-tempered and would not suffer hearing the Princess so disgraced, not even before the eyes of Lord Denethor himself.

An act of furious violence had been precisely what he had wanted.

The Steward halted once they were in the chamber – Théodred and Boromir had come as well – and turned his sharp grey eyes towards the Prince.

"I do not think I invited you to come along, my lord", he said bluntly. Théodred's expression remained calm and collected.

"You did not, Lord Steward. But as a cousin to the Marshal and the highest Rohirric authority present, I do believe I have a right to be here", he said steadily; how he managed that kind of composure, Éomer didn't know. Just a slightest frown revealed the Steward's displeasure but he made no further attempt of having the Prince leave the scene. He turned towards the two parties of the quarrel then.

"I would like to hear what precisely initiated that little outburst, my lords", he said. He too had assumed a calmer tone.

"This lord here made some offensive comments about the Princess of Dol Amroth. As I have great respect for her, I could not suffer anyone disgracing her so", answered the Rohir tightly.

"I was told the Rohirrim have a very earthy sense of humour. I was just trying to jest with the Marshal", Galdegir said. His nose had stopped bleeding and his expression was of perfect innocence.

"My lord, what you said to me could only be regarded humorous in orcish standards!" Éomer snapped, his anger threatening to rise anew, even if he knew what had been the purpose of that scene. He looked at the Steward and forced himself to speak calmer, "Lord Steward, surely you don't approve of anyone, no matter how high is their birth, speaking uncouth and obscene words of your kinswoman?"

"And what did he tell you precisely?" Lord Denethor asked.

"He made implications about myself and the honour of the Princess. And he appears to think it is proper to reduce people, especially a high-born lady as her, to the level of goods of trade", said the Marshal, bristling even as he spoke those words. It was true he had shared with her something only wedded couples shared (in Gondorian mind at least), but it had been because he loved her and wanted to spend his life with her... what Galdegir had spoken of was another thing entirely, like he was a man to first seduce a woman and make her false promises, use her until he got bored, and then toss her away just like that.

"Well, I was under the impression that this Rohirric attendance in the city meant the Princess was to be engaged to one of these gentlemen – to the Marshal here even, as he has been among us before... so I didn't believe it would be so insulting to speak of her as his own already", said the damned lord. He patted his nose and even conjured an impressive look of being miserable. "I'm most sorry for my poor conduct. I did not mean offence."

"You lie!" Éomer growled. "Your only purpose was to speak rudely of the Princess on the front of me, because you explicitly wanted to cause a scene!"

"Why would I want that?" asked Galdegir innocently. The Marshal opened his mouth to answer, but he realised how it would sound if he did insist on pursuing his accusation of foul play. The chances were he'd put Lothíriel under suspicion... and that this loathsome man wasn't so wrong to question her virtue.

They wouldn't care if she loved Éomer and vice versa. The only thing they would see was a wild northerner using the gullible little princess for his own pleasure.

"This is quite enough", Théodred said then, his voice firm and authoritative. "Obviously the Lord Galdegir overstepped some lines, and my cousin did not quite have tolerance for his brand of humour. We Rohirrim have great respect for women, our own and the foreign, so even a hint of dishonour is not treated well among us."

"Very well", said Lord Denethor. He glanced at Galdegir then, "I hope I'm not wrong in assuming that you will forget this unfortunate event by the comfort of an apology?"

The young lord smiled brightly.

"You're most correct in that, Lord Steward", he affirmed. The Steward turned towards Éomer then, giving him an expectant look.

However, the Marshal was again on the brink of outrage. So he was supposed not only to listen to the filth this man spewed and let it go unnoticed, but also to apologise?! No, he wasn't going to let Galdegir humiliate him so!

And so he stood straight and tall, lifting his chin in a challenge.

"Once I let this man go after he had assaulted the Princess of Dol Amroth. I'm not making that mistake again. And I am not going to apologise for treating him the scum he is", he said in strong, cold voice. He turned his glare towards Galdegir, "And if you, my lord, have even resemblance of backbone, will have to accept my challenge for a single combat."

* * *

**A/N: **Mwahahahah. I did say we haven't seen the last of Galdegir, didn't I?

Knowing of Éomer's hot temper and his quite obvious adoration of Lothíriel, it's not really hard for Galdegir to set up this situation. As Éomer understands just after the scene, it is precisely to cast him in bad light in the eyes of Denethor. Add to that Wormtongue's lies and it's pretty difficult for Éomer to untangle the web he has been caught in. And it's even more frustrating because Imrahil is showing signs of starting to understand maybe he has made the wrong judgements.

Hope you enjoyed the chapter, and thanks for reviews!

* * *

**Le Pleiade - **Well, I should think both Éomer and Lothíriel are too stubborn to just give up like that, even if fighting back also means being miserable. As for Théodred, he certainly respects her but I don't think he'd feel she's his type.

**Sandy-wmd - **Oh, it certainly is true for writing as well. It's difficult to focus on one thing when the other keeps distracting you.

Also thanks for the compliment! I'm really happy and flattered to hear that you think so. :)

**Kiiimberly - **Perhaps his stubborness is starting to wear thin now. :)

**Borys68 - **Oh, I see. I suppose I understood you wrong then. And yes, Imrahil would probably take it rather heavily if he learned the truth.

I'm going for the book canon portrayal of Théodred here, so he's the 40-something version here.

**annafan - **Thanks for your comments! Glad to hear you've enjoyed the story. :) Also you're probably right about Imrahil's aversion to the potential marriage of Éomer and Lothíriel.

**Talia119 - **If he hasn't realised that before, I'm thinking he's starting to understand now. And nope, Théodred is not going to stand as a rival to his cousin - that already happened in _House of Sun _so I don't really want to go the same route again.


	9. Chapter 9

_In that hour Lúthien came, and standing upon the bridge that led to Sauron's isle she sang a song that no walls of stone could hinder. Beren heard, and he thought that he dreamed; for the stars shone above him, and in the trees nightingales were singing. _

- Of Beren and Lúthien

* * *

**Chapter 9**

The sound of singing and laughter came, alarming Éomer and Wulfgar at last, and both of them stood up from the narrow corridor where they had sat waiting. Wulfgar was one of the Marshal's own riders, as there was no way he could get Théodred involved in what he was about to do. The Prince had to keep up the diplomatic relationships... but Wulfgar, hearing of what had transpired, was more than happy to come and act as his second. After all, he was a man of the Mark.

As Éomer loosened his sword in its sheath, he glanced at the man beside himself, "You do realise that no matter what happens next, only one thing is for sure? We are going to cause so much trouble."

Wulfgar smiled darkly.

"Oh, I know, my lord. If that was a problem I wouldn't have come", he answered and they shared a look of two determined men.

"You're not scared you'll have to finish what I've started?" Éomer made sure nonetheless, and that brought a grin to the other rider's face.

"Are you then planning on losing this fight?" he asked back.

"No. I'm going to murder that pig of a man, and at this point I don't even care what happens to me because of that", growled the Marshal. The other man nodded emphatically at that. Truly, a Rohirric agreement of honour was a beautiful thing.

And then the noises were getting closer and the two of them stepped out into the open of the street, located closer to the end of the sixth level of the city but far enough from the gate as to not alarm the guards.

He had known his challenge would not be taken well. When he had announced it, Galdegir had turned pale: obviously he had not expected his little scheme to go _that _far. But then the Steward had spoken out, and his resentment had mingled with anger. He had demanded the Marshal take back his words, but Éomer had stood his ground and informed all present that the next time he'd see Galdegir would be with his sword. Théodred had not said anything, knowing his cousin well enough to realise that no words would reach him now. His lack of interference had not pleased the Steward at all, as if he expected the Prince to somehow control his kinsman, and in cold voice he had spoken: "I hereby banish you from this city, Lord Marshal. I expect you to leave tomorrow."

With that the Steward had taken his leave... and Galdegir had grinned at the Marshal and then followed out. Utterly frustrated, Théodred had ordered his cousin to leave the gathering, and the Prince himself had gone to salvage what he could.

But Éomer had not left to cool off his emotions. No, he had swiftly made his way to the barracks, where he had found Wulfgar, and asked the man to accompany him.

The Steward could command him all he wanted... but this barbarian had had enough.

And now as he and Wulfgar stepped out of shadows and took control of that street Galdegir and few of his friends were travelling on their way to whatever nightly entertainment they were seeking. The sight of the two Rohirs had them freezing where they stood.

"I thought the Steward had you banished already, savage", Galdegir said, which brought sniggers out of his friends.

"Oh, he did", said the Marshal lightly, keeping his eyes on the face of that hateful man, "but I did not say I would leave before I had skinned you alive."

His words appeared to unnerve the young lord and he looked slightly paler... and he didn't seem quite able to meet the unfaltering glare of the tall Rohir. He glanced about himself and his four friends.

"There's just the two of you! What can you do?" he asked defiantly, and all five of them pulled out knives. At the sight of those weapons the Marshal couldn't but snort. He didn't unsheathe his sword more than couple inches and neither did Wulfgar, but the hiss of metal against leather was audible in the quiet of the night.

"Aye, there's two of us... but neither of us are armed with knitting needles", said Éomer with a deceiving calm that promised nearing violence. "Tell me, have you ever even taken part in a battle?"

At that, two of Galdegir's friends deserted the scene. They ran without looking back, but the Marshal had no interest in them anyway... though a good whipping could probably do well for the both, if they were at all like Galdegir himself.

"I swear, it was just joke. I didn't mean anything!" tried the young lord. He was starting to look worried now.

"Your lies are about as convincing as they were before... and I still owe you for what happened the last time I saw you", Éomer snorted and glared at the Gondorian.

"My father -" Galdegir just about managed, but the Rohir did not let him finish.

"Is not here to save you. Now, for once in your life act like a man!"

Wulfgar took his cue and tossed a spare sword to the feet of the young lord. If possible, Galdegir's face became even more pale now. For a moment he looked like he might run away like his two friends, but eventually he picked up the sword from ground. With both hands, he lifted it up by the hilt.

The first stroke of sword was but a touch. The cold steel of Gúthwinë licked the blade of Galdegir's sword, and Éomer could feel the startle of the other man as he flinched at contact. As he brought the swords in another contact, his expression twisted into a snarl, thirsty for the blood of this man... he couldn't even remember when he had last fought so angry.

But as they kept exchanging blows, he could soon see that this was not Galdegir's first swordfight. He had received lessons at the very least, although it was quite clear he had never put his skills in actual use; indeed, his movements were reminiscent of a swordsmaster performing when he was showing off his skills to an audience – graceful perhaps, but of little use in an actual fight.

And for Éomer sword had never been a tool of performance. When he attacked, he had but one purpose: to kill, and do it quickly.

So it did not take long for him to drive his opponent into a corner, and each blow he charged with more of his anger for this rat. When their blades locked, Galdegir pulled out his knife again and would have driven it into the neck of the Marshal, but he saw the attack coming, and stopped it by grabbing the lord's hand and twisting his wrist.

He then drove his forehead into Galdegir's already hurt nose. With a cry, the young lord fell... and the Rohir abandoned his sword, and instead when he dropped on his knees he let his fists sing. Somehow, it was far more satisfying to do it this way... Galdegir cried and moaned, and there was blood all over his face, and he wasn't even trying to fight back anymore...

But then arms grabbed him from behind, for the second time that night. And like the last time, it was Théodred and Boromir who tore him away from the man he'd have killed.

"Let me go!" growled the Marshal and struggled against the strength of two men, but their grips were unfaltering.

"As your Prince I order you to stop!" Théodred barked, which finally pierced through the haze of his mad anger. His cousin's eyes were blazing, "Have you lost your mind?"

"Yes, I have, and I was quite happy losing it!" Éomer snapped back. Galdegir was wailing on the ground, and one of his friends had dared to come close and take a look at the beaten and battered nobleman.

"And Wulfgar, what on earth were you thinking when you not only allowed this to happen but also helped out?" Théodred demanded. However, the other culprit seemed just as unrepentant as his Marshal.

"My Prince, I am but a rider and it is not my place to disallow anything Lord Éomer decides to do. In fact, I considered it not only my duty but also an honour to help him", he just said, sounding calmer than anyone participating this scene. His words had Théodred moaning in frustration.

"You are both madmen!" he announced, with just a hint of helplessness now.

"Lord Marshal, have you any idea of what would happen if you killed this man?" Boromir put in. "I know he's scum but you do not want a blood feud between yourself and his father!"

The Rohir forced back his anger and tried to calm down. Hard it was, but he couldn't just shout his head off at his prince and the captain.

"And what do you suppose the Lord Steward will say when he hears you beat up the son of his good friend? I told you to get out and calm down!" Théodred said angrily.

"Speaking of which, I suggest you two – and that friend of Marshal's over there – get out of here while you still can. Someone has probably already made an alarm of this bedlam. I'll stay and take care of everything", Boromir said. He picked up Éomer's sword but looked slightly hesitant when he offered it back, as if he expected the younger man continue his rampage.

"The captain speaks wisely. We will take our leave now", said the Prince authoritatively and gave his cousin a glare. He pulled Éomer by his arm after himself and growled angrily when the other gave Galdegir a parting kick. Wulfgar followed them in silence.

When they were a shout's distance from the scene, Théodred spoke at last.

"You are a complete idiot and I would do well if I killed you right here", he announced. "How do you suppose the Steward will now think of a marriage between any man of Rohan? Or the Princess Lothíriel's father? By living up to your challenge you've just proved right all their prejudices about us being little else than violent barbarians!"

"So I should just have sit back then? Let that man spill his filth and allow it to go not only unnoticed but also unpunished?" Éomer shot back sharply.

"It's not your call to make!" Théodred snapped. "You're not the authority here! This is not Rohan!"

"Well, maybe this should be, if men can assault and dishonour women without no one doing anything about it just because of their supposedly great and mighty lineage!" answered the Marshal angrily.

"I know it's wrong, but what would you say if Lord Denethor came to your house and acted there with no respect for our ways and rules? If you wanted this Galdegir punished you should have let the Steward deal with it! Cousin, we do not need conflicts like these between ourselves, not now!" scowled the Prince. "Your princess is not worth this!"

That almost had Éomer punching his own cousin. He stopped and glared icily at the older man.

"She is. She is worth the world, and I would beat up all the men in the world for her. And you can never convince me I did wrong in thrashing that pig!" he hissed.

At last Théodred realised he was fighting a lost cause. He sighed and shook his head and seemed to somehow grow smaller as his anger left him.

"Fine. If that's what you think, then I'll say no more. But know that Father will hear everything that happened here, and you _will _have to listen to him, if you won't listen to me", he said tiredly.

By then they were halfway to the Citadel and Théodred looked like he'd have continued speaking, but it was that moment their way was cut.

There were ten men there blocking the road, all armed and some of them bearing torches. The leader of them was tall, almost of equal height with the Marshal, and he had the looks of high Númenorian descent which Éomer was starting to recognise. His dark hair was greying however, so he was not a young man by any means... but stern he looked, and the bite of age had not gotten hold of him. Judging by his clothing he could only be a lord of Gondor. There was something familiar about the face of the man, though Éomer could not tell where he had met him before.

But then his eyes fell on a younger man, who was standing just by the elbow of this stern-faced lord, and recognised him as one of Galdegir's friends. He must have run for help.

"Where is my son?" barked the man in lead. His voice was cold and hard. "What have you done with him?"

"Your son will be quite fine, lord. Though he was bruised I deem the most injury he received was to his ego", Prince Théodred said. There was something tight about his tone and Éomer knew his cousin well enough to understand the older man was sensing trouble.

"How dare you? How dare you savages attack a lord of his standing? Do you even understand who I am?" asked the lord.

"Oh, it took very little daring, my lord. It was a high time someone taught manners to your precious son", snapped the Marshal, which instantly earned him a glare from his cousin. That look very clearly spoke _let me handle this. _

But the lord's eyes had already flashed to Éomer, and he noticed the man's eyes were very dark instead of the usual grey you saw among these descendants of the Men of the West. He met the gaze with one of his own; he had yet to meet a man whose glare he couldn't stand.

"So this is the savage who has assaulted and insulted my son", declared Galdegir's father, staring hard at the Rohir as if hoping to bend him to his will.

"Lord, that word eventually loses it's meaning if you keep repeating it. You may even find it becomes an omen", Théodred said calmly. "So I would not toss it around quite so generously."

He frowned then, "And you would do well to remember that you are talking with members of the House of Eorl. If my cousin here has committed any misgivings, you are not the one to deal with them. That matter is entirely between myself and the Lord Denethor, whom I intend to seek presently to clear out this mess. I assure you all disciplinary actions necessary will be taken."

However, his words did not have much of an effect on the man before them. If possible, his features hardened even more.

"I would not care even if you were the sons of the King of Númenor. No one touches my son and walks away unpunished", he announced clearly. "But out of respect for you and your King, Prince, you may take your leave now. You need not suffer for the crimes of your cousin."

Théodred's face became a grimace that held something determined. He glared at the Gondorian lord before them.

"So you expect me to abandon my kinsman to your mercy? I suggest you tread very carefully now, lord. What you would do is not a slight Eorl's sons would forget. A Marshal of the Mark and the sister-son of Théoden King is not your to punish, especially not in unlawful ways!"

"Then you will suffer the consequences as well", said Galdegir's father and his men around him tensed in a way Éomer knew for preparing for a battle. Here in the very vicinity of the Citadel! Almost instinctively, the three Rohirs fell into a defensive line.

He glanced at his cousin, who had his hand on a sword now too, "Théodred, get gone. I won't have you in harm's way because of what I've done!"

"And leave you alone with Wulfgar here? Don't be ridiculous!" barked the Prince.

"You're the Prince, Théodred – you're far more important than I, you need to -" he started, but then appeared the last person probably all of them had expected to see.

From the shadows, Princess Lothíriel appeared, cloaked and alone. All others were no doubt surprised to see her here at this time of night, but Éomer knew she had ways of sneaking out of her father's house. Speaking of Prince Imrahil's palace of a home, he only now took notice that they couldn't be far from the said place... she had probably meant to come and look for him.

"This is quite enough!" she announced in a clear voice fit for a queen. "Are you lot of idiots actually meaning to fight here, on the very gate of my father's house?"

"Princess Lothíriel", said Galdegir's father with emphasised patience and just a hint of belittlement, "this does not concern you. Leave now while you still can, and let the men handle the matter."

She scoffed and quite courageously stopped in the between of two parties. She stood there as if thinking no weapon could harm her, and Éomer could but stare at her in a mixture of horror and disbelief.

"Oh, so you mean I should let you men in your great wisdom get each other killed and potentially start a war between Gondor and Rohan?" she snapped. "Is your injured pride truly worth letting our world burn? I can't imagine greater folly!"

Now the Marshal's horror and disbelief was starting to turn into admiration. Well, he had known she was an extraordinary lady.

"Princess, if you will not agree to leave, I can have you removed", said the Gondorian lord threateningly. That had Éomer snarling and he might have attacked right then, but Lothíriel lifted up her hand as if she had known his thoughts and intention. She stood tall and straight and showed no sign of being scared.

"You would do well to remember we are a shout's distance from my father's house, Lord Ocharnil. I only need to scream and his men will flood this place, and for all your cunning words I don't expect even you can explain adequately to my uncle and father why you decided to assault the Princess of Dol Amroth!"

Galdegir's father glared at her for a long quiet moment, but eventually he did realise there was no way around this. He said no word to them, but instead gave some muffled orders to his men, and they moved aside to make way.

"Wonderful. I'm glad to see for all your manliness you can still think clearly", Lothíriel scoffed. She glanced over her shoulder to the three Rohirs, all of whom stood silent and awed. "Now, if you would come along, my lords of Rohan. I'm sure the Steward is expecting to hear of all this."

Quietly they moved forward, and Éomer suspected all present had been robbed of their voices. Well, except for Lothíriel at least... and Ocharnil too. For as they were passing him by, he sneered.

"How does it feel then, to be saved by a woman?" he asked.

But Lothíriel laughed.

"A woman? Is that supposed to be an insult? You seem to forget that the same woman stopped _you_", she snorted. Rolling her eyes, she went forward, "Men and their manliness! I swear, some day you're going to get us all killed..."

* * *

The night was late already when Father came to check on her. Lothíriel was sat by the window, staring out: she had not even taken off her fine gown, and the tea Father had ordered to be made for her sat forgotten on a table next to her.

"Daughter", he called her softly, distracting her from the thoughts she had wandered in. The worried look on his face had still not subsided. He asked, "How do you feel?"

"I... I don't know", she said, her voice quiet and small. She felt like a child, scared and helpless. All strength and courage had left her long since, and now she even wondered how she had dared something like that... set herself between two groups of armed men ready to fight.

From there they had gone up to the Citadel, and her uncle had already heard of the duel that had taken place against his orders. He had been furious of course and demanded to talk with the Prince Théodred and Éomer right away. As for Lothíriel, he had instantly sent her home, because apparently she had no business taking part in any of this. Escorted by two guards she had no choice but to obey, and getting home Father had been quite amazed to see her, as he had thought she was in bed already. But all the excitement of the evening had distracted him from the fact that she had sneaked out... instead, he had hurried up to the Citadel to see what was afoot.

Upon his return he had found her waiting for news. So he told her that the Rohirrim had been ordered to leave the city this very night. And Éomer had been forbidden from ever returning.

Now he had come to see her again and obviously was somewhat dismayed by the fact that she was still up. Father sighed and he took a chair, which he placed opposite her. He sat down and gently picked up her hand.

"You know your uncle had no other choice. He had to banish the Marshal permanently... no matter what kind of a man he is, Galdegir is of very high birth, and his father is a powerful man", he said gently. "I know what you think of them, but objectively it was a good thing the Marshal did not manage to kill Galdegir."

"All the world would be happier if he had succeeded", Lothíriel said darkly. She looked at him, "Can't you do anything, Father?"

"It seems this goes beyond my power. I don't think Denethor would even listen to me if I tried to talk of it with him", he answered and shook his head. "What you did was very brave, daughter. But it was also very dangerous, and I believe you sit there only because Ocharnil is not yet powerful enough to openly go against me."

She frowned and a feeling of doubt filled her heart.

"What do you mean, Father?" she asked. Her father looked very serious now.

"Something I haven't told you before is that... well, Lord Ocharnil is someone very influential, but his power is not entirely tied into his status. Since what Galdegir tried to do to you last year, I've been doing some investigation in secrecy, and though I can't really prove anything, it seems to me that Ocharnil has his fingers in much more than an honourable man should. He's not a good person, Lothíriel... and all the shadier folk you might find in the lower levels of the city fear him", he explained quietly.

Lothíriel was certainly feeling very troubled now.

"So he's some kind of a criminal overlord then?" she asked, which made him wince.

"I wouldn't use that expression, though it perhaps isn't so far from the truth", Father answered.

"Why haven't you said anything to uncle? We can't have men like that in our city!" she said heatedly.

"Dear child, you know how Denethor is. He hardly believes what he hasn't witnessed with his own eyes. And he has long been friends with Lord Ocharnil's family – first with his father and now with the man himself. Your uncle isn't going to raise a hand against Ocharnil, not unless the evidence was absolutely overwhelming. And men like Ocharnil never leave traces", Father said. He too was now frowning deeply. He looked up at her then, "Had you known this beforehand, would you still have gone between him and the Marshal?"

"I would", Lothíriel said, her voice strong and determined. "I... well, I'd be scared, but Éomer is worth it."

"That is what bravery is, dear daughter – doing what you think is right even if you're scared."

Father considered her hands in silence for a while, but eventually he spoke again. When he did, there was something resigned about his voice, "You really do love that man."

"Yes, Father. I do love him... and I want to spend my life with him", she said softly, hoping that he might see her honesty. The look on his face was sad.

"Perhaps... perhaps I have judged this matter wrongly", he allowed at last, in a voice barely audible. "Daughter, you do understand that none of it was to make you unhappy? That I did not reject his proposal just out of spite?"

"I know that, and I'm not angry with you. I just wish you had understood this earlier", Lothíriel said. Her father cast down his eyes and looked unhappy.

"But I did not", he said at length, "not before seeing how very much it hurt you, and how you still refused to give in."

He looked at her then, "Just like your mother would have refused surrender. I suppose you were right in saying she wouldn't have approved of any of this."

Even in this situation, Lothíriel found herself smiling. Something in her heart unclenched and was replaced by a kind of relief, though that seemed odd when Éomer was banished. She had not thought Father would ever see her point of view, yet now he did after all.

However, his face still held but that troubled look.

"Your uncle is not going to agree, though. Not after what happened", he said. "Perhaps, if the Marshal had consented to apologise, it could have been put behind ourselves. But I must say I do not blame him for not giving in. If it is true what he said of Galdegir, I wish I could have delivered those blows myself. Ironically enough, you would be the most safe now if you went with the Lord Marshal to Rohan, where none of Ocharnil's webs can reach you."

"So there's nothing to be done then? I must see Éomer gone once again?" she asked sadly.

"It could be for the better, for now at least. Let the dust settle down a bit, and your uncle abate", Father answered.

"But what if he doesn't? He was so angry..." Lothíriel mumbled. Tears burned her eyes now and her father saw that; he reached over to give her a hug.

"Have faith, my child", he murmured and rubbed her back gently.

The scene was then interrupted, for on the door there was a knock. At Lothíriel's call a guard from outside peeked in. He said, "My lord, the Lord Marshal of Rohan is outside and asking to see your daughter."

For one moment that was painfully long Lothíriel was convinced that Father would say now and order the guard to tell Éomer to leave. Hesitation was there on his face indeed, but at last he sighed.

"Very well", he said softly. "Let us go and see the man."

* * *

Being someone who was used to having calls to arms in a very short notice, it hadn't taken long for Éomer to fetch his armour, pull it on, bag his saddlebag, and get going. He knew the moment of departure would come soon, but he simply couldn't leave the city without telling goodbye to Lothíriel. These were not the circumstances he had hoped to do that, and even more uncertain it was if he should ever be able to return... but that was a thought he couldn't let take a hold of him.

So, as soon as he was ready, he rode down to the house of Prince Imrahil. Chances were the man had even less inclination to listen to him now than before. Perhaps Théodred did not have it entirely wrong... perhaps his chief achievement _had _been proving he was just the sort of savage Rohirrim were believed to be.

But he pushed away those thoughts, and as calmly and politely he could he announced his business at the gate of the house of Prince of Dol Amroth... and to his surprise, his wish was granted.

When Lothíriel appeared at the doorway, Éomer became acutely aware of how much he wanted to stay – and how difficult it was to leave her all over again. And how little there was now hope of a reunion, as he had been banished for ever... he couldn't think of that for long however, as Prince Imrahil himself stood there too, and the Marshal wondered what had earned him this. What had made the man change his mind?

Pondering that became irrelevant then, for Lothíriel was striding towards him, and he dismounted. He caught her in his arms and buried his face in her hair for one glorious instance.

"My dearest Princess", he uttered at last, though his voice was weak, "I fear I have come to say goodbye to you."

"Oh, you insane man!" she exclaimed. "Why did you have to do that? Why did you go after Galdegir?"

"How was I supposed to let him go unpunished again? I will not suffer anyone dishonouring you!" he told her heatedly. Lothíriel didn't answer, but instead looked at him in silence. He sighed, "I'm sorry if I have upset you. Just... you need to understand that you are more precious to me than anything in this world."

"I do know that, beloved", she said softly and looked down. "For I feel the same for you."

She buried her face against his armour-clad shoulder, and again he held her tight. Briefly his eyes met Imrahil's; the Prince stood quiet and unmoving at the doorway and Éomer could not read the expression on the man's face. Still, he had let this scene go on this long, so perhaps...

That line of thought was broken by Lothíriel slightly pulling back.

"It seems like the fates will only ever take you away from me", she murmured sorrowfully, her eyes full of tears she wouldn't let fall. Gently, he cradled her face between his hands.

"I do not believe that our fates are so set – I have faith that we can make them ourselves. And I am convinced that even if my road is parted from yours for now, it will lead back to you... it will _always _lead back to you", he promised to her.

A soft cry parted from her lips and at last she kissed him, there on the front of her father. Éomer thought he heard a gasp of shock, but Lothíriel's kiss was a more pressing matter, and he couldn't but answer it... for who knew when he'd be able to do this again?

Who knew when she'd be in his arms once more?

When it ended, he rested his forehead against hers, though from the direction of the Citadel he already heard the horsemen approaching... and soon he'd have to let go of her.

"You will endure?" he asked softly, his fingers in her hair.

"I..." she mumbled, shivering as she spoke.

"Please. Promise me that you will endure. No matter what happens", Éomer pleaded and lifted her face so that he could see her eyes.

"... I will", she swore, and he managed to give her a smile. He kissed her again, but only very briefly. Time was running out.

"You're strong", he told her, wishing she would believe him.

"I hope that's true. Just... how long will you be gone this time? When will I see you again?" she murmured, holding on tight to him.

"Dearest, I wish I knew that. But I promise I will return to you again. Wait for me, will you?" he murmured.

"I always do", Lothíriel murmured gently. "Stay safe, my beloved horselord."

* * *

**A/N: **I must say, the story took kind of an unexpected turn here. I really didn't expect to Galdegir's family relations to turn out like that, and I did consider and reconsider whether making his father this crime boss kind of type would be a too modern thing. But then why couldn't that sort of thing take place even in Gondor? These are supposedly the years of twilight and decay, so I'd think someone ruthless and powerful enough could try and use it to his own advantage. I couldn't really resist the chance of including a bit of that kind of intrigue in the story. So, Éomer didn't really have a clear idea of what he was doing when challenging Galdegir, because if Ocharnil can help it somehow there should be hell to pay. From that point of view it's probably good thing our hot-headed Marshal is leaving the city for now.

Lothíriel's line "A woman? Is that supposed to be an insult?" is far too clever and awesome to be my own intention. Indeed it is a (slightly modified) quote from George R. R. Martin's character Daenerys Targaryen from The Song of Ice and Fire. I'm ridiculously attached to that line and couldn't resist the temptation of using it here.

Still, it's of little use that Imrahil has somewhat relented, because Denethor is now more set than ever.

As usual, I am thankful for all reviews! Hopefully you continue to enjoy this story!

* * *

**TheCountessCorpse - **Well, I suppose that wasn't really the complete destruction, but Galdegir did get some of what he deserved!

**Kiiimberly - **That he certainly is. But he also has a powerful father.

**Sandy-wmd - **Yes, and Galdegir is much more used to this kind of intrigue and he's good at turning the good light on himself. Éomer, having been raised as an honest man who stands by his words, has never really been in the situation like this before. And boy, does it show.

**Mellon - **I should say the whole thing about the two not being able to marry is the driving conflict of the story. So there wouldn't be much to say if it was quickly and easily resolved.

**Ranger -** You really do have an extreme black-and-white view of people and their morals and motivations, don't you?


	10. Chapter 10

_For now, believing that Beren and Felagund were prisoners beyond hope of aid, they purposed to let the King perish, and to keep Lúthien, and force Thingol to give her the mightiest of princes of the Noldor. _

_- _Of Beren and Lúthien

* * *

**Chapter 9**

The uproar over what had happened at the end of the visit of horselords died out eventually. Though it was quite a scandal and brought some highly unwanted attention to Lothíriel – the word it had been her honour the Third Marshal had defended got out soon – it was also news that soon got old. Had the situation in the realm been more peaceful and calm, perhaps the society would have spent more time dissecting the events of that fateful night. However, the shadows grew ever longer and a word of war was of a far greater consequence than court scandals.

Galdegir did not make any public appearances for an entire month, and when he did he couldn't quite hide the fact his nose had been broken... perhaps it was but her imagination, but the few times she saw him in the Citadel it seemed he was giving her some very venomous looks. She expected to receive something similar from his father, but surprisingly – and unnervingly – Lord Ocharnil's looks were more calculating than anything.

As a result, and hearing of the man's dark ways, Lothíriel finally revealed the weakness in the wall that circled her father's house. She may lose her freedom but now she deemed it was a small price for the safety of her family.

Though she knew her interference had not made the two men love her, there were more important things happening in the realm. Being daughter to the Prince Imrahil she saw and heard many worrisome things, and daily she watched how his burdens grew and how troubled he looked when he came home. Same went for her cousins: Faramir barely came to the city anymore, as he was so busy with his Rangers, and Boromir too was increasingly away... until the day came he rode away towards west. No one told her what it was about, but she saw the grave looks on the faces of her kinsmen when Boromir was set on his way. He was happy to deliver her letter to Éomer at least, as he was hoping to meet the Marshal in Rohan. From the talks Lothíriel could tell the land of the horselords was not Boromir's ultimate destination, but where he'd go from there she couldn't imagine, and she couldn't even persuade Father to tell her what it was about.

Nonetheless, the day she watched her cousin ride away, Lothíriel felt the dark touch of foreboding.

* * *

The orcs had come at night, attacking the small settlement without a warning. Very few had escaped and they had made way towards Aldburg; at once upon hearing the news, Éomer and his men had ridden out with fury.

They were able to reach the band of orcs before those creatures passed from the realm, and destroyed all of them. Yet even as the carcasses burned and there was knowledge the orcs had paid for what they had done, the people they had killed would not come alive... the homes burned would not be mended by the spilling of black orcish blood.

This was an increasingly familiar setting.

In the realm of the Mark, it seemed to Éomer, the light was waning. Fight he could as much as there was strength in him, but what was there to do when Uncle wouldn't listen to his suggestions and pleads? How should he protect people who were spread out on an area too large for his men to cover and should long have been evacuated to safer reaches?

Even knowing of Wormtongue's scheming ways, he wondered if it had anything to do with the fiasco that had been the visit to Gondor. Truly Uncle had been angry for how he had behaved, but behind his back the Marshal was met with many approving nods – some even said they wished they could have been there to watch him beat up that man. But the diplomatic matters were apparently more important, and once Uncle was done reproaching him Éomer was sent back to Aldburg like a misbehaving child. He was bristling when he did go, but he was not a man to defy his king.

The year fell into autumn, and though a letter came from Lothíriel and brought him brief comfort, delivered by none other than Captain Boromir on his way North, Éomer felt like losing hope.

Still he fought on.

* * *

More of the nobility was starting to send away their wives and children these days, and Father tried to convince Lothíriel to leave too.

"You would be safer in Dol Amroth, dear child", he kept saying.

"And leave you here all alone, to brood away your nights when all of your family is gone? No, Father. I'm not going to leave the city, not even if the army of the enemy was howling before the gates", she told him firmly.

"Soon it may come into that, Lothíriel", he said darkly and rested a hand on her shoulder. "Dear child, I can't bear the idea of you slaughtered here. I would have you safe, and away from here."

He frowned and looked at her very seriously, "Not to mention leaving the city would put some distance between you and the family of Lord Ocharnil. Though he has yet to make any move, I'm certain he did not take well your interference."

"What can he do to me in my own home, Father? I swear I'll be more careful from now on – I won't even go for rides anymore, if you think it's too dangerous. Just... don't send me away", she pleaded.

Father looked at her, his eyes sorrowing and troubled. Then he hugged her and held her close for a long time.

He did let her stay, but Lothíriel could never tell if it was because she had convinced him or if he just didn't want to see her gone.

* * *

Many days, he felt exhausted.

That was not a surprise. As the year grew older, the more of Éomer's time was spent on patrols, chasing orcs, and trying to keep secure the increasingly dangerous borderlands. Plead as he may he wouldn't get more riders or a permission to recruit any from the lands surrounding Aldburg. At least with some intrigue he was able to evacuate the lands beyond River Entwash and bring the farmers and herdsmen into an area more easily defended.

Yet it filled him with helpless anger, to know so many dark things were walking the lands freely. More men ought to be out there fighting them and showing the Enemy that Rohan had not yet succumbed.

But as the year grew older so grew Théoden King more distant, and it was hard to keep alive his faith that perhaps there was some light beyond these dark days. And no more words came from Gondor: read as he might Lothíriel's letter, it didn't bring her any closer to him, and hours and space between them were long.

Who knew what was happening in Gondor?

And nightmares were many: Rohan burning, the home he knew and loved destroyed, and all the good things dying... Gondor too giving in for the flames of war and Lothíriel dead...

All he could was to trust Prince Imrahil to protect her, even if there were times when he wondered if it would just have been better to steal her that very night he had left Minas Tirith.

But then, what safety would there have been for her even in Rohan?

* * *

For all of Father's duties in Minas Tirith, they did travel to Dol Amroth for Yuletide. After all, rest of the family was there and it would have been quite lonely to stay in the White City, especially knowing others expected them to join the celebrations by the sea.

It was good to see Amrothos, and Erchirion too for once in a while had some time to speak of other things than war-waging. Elphir and Cuileth were completely oblivious for the most parts, as they had been ever since their son Alphros had been born. And Lothíriel couldn't blame them, seeing what a sweet child those two had.

The time of Yule was precious and also a welcome change for all the brooding and darkness that had fallen on the realm. For a brief moment, one could almost believe there might be some better end beyond all this.

Seeing the faces of her family also had Lothíriel thinking of a man she loved: how was he faring up in north? Was he taking care of himself, and did he remember to take a breath every now and then? Or was he pushing himself too much... was he perhaps dead, slain in some battle in the far away land of Rohan?

There was no telling what was happening to Éomer. And the uncertainty, the not knowing if in the courtyard they had shared their last goodbye, was the worst thing.

* * *

Even with all the evil taking place in the realm, Éomer at least still had one ally he could count on. His cousin Théodred was just as determined to fight and to find a new morrow rising in all free kingdoms. Though there had been some serious disagreements between them since the visit to Gondor, in this the two always remained allies. Rohan and the survival of their people was what they never disagreed about.

In this, they could always count on each other... and sometimes, the Marshal felt the two of them were the last men in Rohan strong enough to fight – to lead.

Perhaps, in the end, he trusted too much their alliance. Perhaps he saw Théodred as too everlasting. For in the end, nothing could really prepare him for the death of his cousin. In many ways, the loss of the Crown Prince was the last straw.

Now darkness was spreading even from west, and Théodred was slain in a battle; the strength of Men was failing. Rohan itself was caught between a rock and a hard place. The hammer of war was falling hard on the land of the horselords, and most days Éomer did not think he would look upon the face of Lothíriel again.

He certainly did not feel so the day they arrested him and put him behind bars for warmongering and for attacking Wormtongue... but then, what was he supposed to do?

What does a man driven to the very end of his endurance and patience do?

That night he spent in prison was the longest one of his life. There he sat behind bars, looking out and watching stars... and wondering if he should soon join his cousin... wondering how much longer the simple pleasure of watching the night sky was still there for the Children of Men.

_Min Nihtegale... _

* * *

Afterwards, it seemed miraculous and strange and he had not expected it. One moment, he sat in the prison waiting for what fate Wormtongue had in mind for him, and next the door of his cage was opened and he was told the King had ordered to set him free.

The arrival of Wizard Gandalf had certainly turned things upside down... or, rather, turned things how they should be. For Uncle was restored, and righteousness had returned to the land.

But the path of righteousness was also that of war, and soon they were on the road for west of the kingdom and Helm's Deep.

The way there was long but also offered a long-awaited chance for the King and his nephew to speak of all things that had remained lately unsaid.

"My lord", he said as they rode side by side, "I am sorry for what happened to Théodred. I should have -"

His uncle wouldn't let him finish the sentence, however. Théoden lifted a hand and gave him a stark glance.

"It was not your fault, sister-son. You have done all that you can, and even more. No, the blame is elsewhere. I alone can bear the guilt, for if I had not fallen under Wormtongue's manipulations I would have understood what danger lurked in the land... I would have done something about it before it was too late", he said briskly. Then his eyes softened, "I wouldn't have you call me your lord, Éomer. I am your uncle, after all... and you're my heir."

_Théoden's heir. _Somehow, even if he in theory understood the meaning of that, it still seemed unreal and kind of wrong. It was Théodred's by right... but Théodred was dead.

"Of course... uncle", he said carefully, which brought a smile to the aged face of the King.

"Now, I don't know precisely what dangers await us ahead, but all that Gandalf has told me makes it very clear the road is long still and there will be battles and strife. I will not hold you back, because I know you must fight, and I will need you fighting as well. However, I would also have you be as careful as you can", Théoden said then, speaking softly and very solemnly. "Like I said, you _are _my heir. And you need to live. You need to live to carry on our line."

The younger man lowered his eyes at that, unsure of how to respond. So he just nodded.

"Don't be troubled, sister-son. I have faith that you will survive", Théoden said, more gentle this time. When Éomer looked at him, he was smiling fondly, "Are you still thinking of that Princess you met in Gondor?"

"... I never stopped, Uncle", he answered awkwardly.

"Of course. It seems I owe you my apology, for what I did under Wormtongue's influence... it was ill of me, to seek her hand in marriage for Théodred instead", said the King, and the mention of his son's name brought back the look of grief in his eyes.

"It's no matter now", Éomer answered and shook his head. But the troubled weight on his heart did not ease, and he continued, "Uncle, if and when a situation comes we have to ride for Gondor... well, you know I was permanently banished. Am I then to stay behind?"

"Not at all! Sister-son, if we are to fulfil again Eorl's Oath, then I would have you by my side. You're one of my best men and I need you fighting beside me. And if the Steward thinks some banishment is more important than our alliance, then he is either stupid or insane", Théoden said calmly. He gave his nephew a comforting look, "Worry not, Éomer. When we ride for Gondor, each man will be welcomed... and I will personally speak with the Steward about this matter of banishment. You will be king one day, after all, so I do not believe even the Lord Denethor can deny you the entrance to Mundburg... and if Lord Aragorn our friend decides to pursue his fate, then I believe he at least should agree this banishment of yours has no bearing whatsoever."

That did console the Marshal, and he was able to give his uncle a smile. Théoden answered it gently. Then the look of concern found its way back to his features and the lines on his face deepened. In his eyes, there was something tired.

"But first we should concentrate on surviving this next battle. I fear many that we know will not see the end of it..."

* * *

The days were falling into ruin very quickly now.

If nothing else was certain, the war was. Each day saw more people leaving the city, once so proud and brimming with life, and Lothíriel watched the endless caravans of evacuees leaving this settlement. And each day, she'd see her father returning from the counsels looking more and more concerned. There was no smile or laughter on his brow now, and all she could do for him was to try and secure he at least had a moment of release when he came home. Her best she did to tell him amusing tales she had read in her books or prepare a delicious meal, but nothing she could do would truly lift that burden from the shoulders of her father.

And she couldn't help but wonder if her dear Marshal was met with similar concerns back in his own land... oh, if only she could have been there too, to offer what comfort she could!

But then a day came in March of the year 3019 of Third Age, when the Great Darkness was spreading from the east, that Father told Lothíriel: "You _must _leave the city."

She told him the same thing as every time before now: "I will not leave you here all alone, Father!"

This time, however, there was not that softening in the eyes of her dear father. Instead, its place was taken by something desperate and even kind of furious.

"Don't you see, Lothíriel? The war is almost here! It's only a matter of days now, and I can assure you it will be sooner than later. You _must _leave. I will not have you die here in the city, not if there is still a chance of saving your life!" he ranted in something that resembled anger but was not really that because he was talking with her.

"But the Rohirrim will come, won't they? I've heard talk. Everyone says Eorl's sons won't abandon us now, like they didn't abandon us before", Lothíriel tried. She had indeed heard talks on the markets, and it seemed that the Rohirrim answering the call of Gondor was the chief hope of Minas Tirith now. And in that, she invested her own private hope. Éomer was, after all, an important war leader... and if it truly came to the situation where all of the Rohirrim were needed, surely some silly banishment would mean very little when considered against all the lives he could save otherwise?

"It is irrelevant. Maybe they will come, maybe they won't. Who knows?" said her father, shaking his head in tired desperation. When he looked at her, his eyes were full of things dark and troubled, and it scared her. He spoke, "Please, daughter. You must go. It is far easier to me to do my duty if you're not here – if I can only concentrate on war instead of worrying whether you are all right."

At that, Lothíriel finally realised there was really nothing she could do to turn the mind of her father. And so she relented, hard as that was.

"Father..." she said quietly. How should she speak all the things in her mind, and all that worried her?

"Father, what if I don't see you again?" she asked, and her voice was scared and small. He pulled her close and held her tight to himself. By his trembling she knew he was trying hard not to cry.

"Have faith, my child", he whispered into her hair, though the very tone of his voice revealed he did not reserve much faith for himself.

That afternoon, she packed her bags.

* * *

Father had sent with her two guards from his own household, and they would accompany her to Dol Amroth. Also two guards of the city had come along, but they'd escort her only as far as the harbour of Harlond. After all, every man that could be spared would be needed in the city.

Judging by their garb, they were men recruited in these desperate days, and Lothíriel wondered if Father would ever have trusted them with her life if he had not been so burdened. No, the man she knew from the more peaceful days would not have done that. But her poor father, having so many concerns and so many lives depending on him, did not quite have time for his usual scrutiny... and her own eyes had been so full of tears that when she had left the house of her father she had paid little heed to those escorting her.

Lothíriel was, as far as she knew, among the last to leave the city. She didn't want to go but there had been little she had been able to tell her father, and anyway he had been absolutely unrelenting at the face of all her pleads. He was determined: Lothíriel ought to get out of the city while it was still possible.

Yet if she could have chosen otherwise, she would have stayed, no matter what was the fate that awaited the city.

In the east, the shadow hung dark and heavy, and she knew why many were scared. She couldn't tell why she didn't feel it quite as acutely. Perhaps it was just her concern for her dear father, and the hope her beloved Rohir had told her to uphold. Lothíriel knew doom was nigh, and yet she failed to feel the proper foreboding.

As they made way towards Harlond from where her ship would depart to Dol Amroth she thought of many things. She thought of father of course, but also of her dear cousin Boromir, who reportedly was dead. She thought of how she had cried upon hearing the news, and how she had mourned knowing he had died all alone and far away from his family. Worse yet, now Faramir's life was hanging on a balance too, for he had taken injury in a battle, and he was very weak. Of Father's determination to have her away spoke how he wouldn't even let her stay with her cousin, although she had insisted she could look after Faramir.

She also thought of her dear father bearing all those burdens, though Mithrandir was now in the city and some said his presence brought hope.

And she thought of Éomer, riding with his king... hopefully speeding towards Minas Tirith, as the answer of the Rohirrim now was the only thing they could place their hopes on. In such a situation, no banishment had any meaning. If he came and survived, he'd be welcomed as a helper in great need.

They had gotten as far as the second level when one of the city guards said his horse was acting funnily.

"It doesn't feel right. Something's wrong", he announced.

The older of the two men from Father's household frowned.

"We need to keep going. The boat isn't going to wait forever", he answered.

But the city guard did not pay any heed to those words. Instead, he lead his steed to a smaller side street, out of the main road, on which troops of men were marching back and forth: evidently Mithrandir was fast at work in organising the defences of the city. It was said that the injuries Faramir had taken had rendered Lord Denethor incapable of leading the men, and she couldn't but wonder in what kind of trouble they would have been if her father and the Wizard Gandalf had not been here.

"Did you hear what I said? We can't tarry here!" said the guard Father had sent with her.

"Mind taking a look on his feet? I think he has hurt them", said the other one, still not taking to account the Swan Knight's demands. In frustration the man from Father's household dismounted and went along to see what it was about.

In the moments that followed several things took place, but it was all such a chaos Lothíriel barely comprehended what happened before she was already pulled down from the saddle. Indeed, in a flurry of events the Swan Knight who had gone to see the horse's feet was killed: the city guard moved fast as a snake and slit the throat of the unsuspecting man. His friend had dismounted as well without her noticing, and before she could react he was already pulling her to ground.

The last remaining guard only had time for unsheathing his sword and growling in anger before he found a throwing knife in his own neck. She tried to shriek but a hand came cover her mouth, and roughly she was dragged away from the scene.

In panic Lothíriel struggled against the grip of the man who had pulled her down. What on earth was happening? Had the war already found its way into the city?

"Who are you? What do you want of me, you murderers?" she demanded to know when they slowed down a bit and the hand didn't cover her mouth anymore. "Let go of me!"

"Sadly, that is not quite possible, Princess. We have orders to not let you leave the city", said her captor.

"And I give you orders to release me! Oh, you have no idea what my father will do with you when he hears of this!" she snarled.

"When your father hears of this, there will be nothing he can do", said the fake guard, grinning as he spoke. And then, before she could do anything or even scream for help, a heavy fist fell on the side of her head, and she saw stars.

* * *

Lothíriel came around again when a bucket of water was emptied on her face. She felt disoriented and dizzy and it took a while for her eyes to adjust. She had been quite unceremoniously tossed on the floor, and above her faces loomed.

"Coming around at last, are you, little Princess?" asked a voice she had not heard in a while but recognised nevertheless. Of course only Galdegir would be so vile!

"You come here and I'll tell you about little", she mumbled, barely coherent. Oh, her poor guards, slaughtered at the side of road just like that! Both had been good men and they would be sorely missed if the truth about this would ever be made known.

"Brave she is indeed. Still talking large even now", said another voice. Lord Ocharnil! _Of course. _

Then hands appeared and she was roughly pulled up on her feet. Lothíriel's head swam and she nearly lost her footing, but eventually she was able to focus her eyes on the smirking faces of the two loathsome men and their cronies. They looked mostly the same as the last time she had seen them, though one couldn't really miss the broken nose of Galdegir – by the courtesy of one Marshal Éomer, bless him – which gave him unpleasant look. He stood beside his father three feet away from her. The space they were in was some kind of a bare cellar and the only source of light were torches.

As soon as she had made the observation about her surroundings, she glared at the two men before her.

"I demand you explain what this insanity is supposed to be, and then I order you to release me!" she announced with the aura of someone who actually had control over the situation. However, her words just made the smile on Ocharnil's face widen.

"Oh, you will have your explanation, Princess. But I fear we can't let you go, now that we have you", he said calmly, "If there's anything good about this war, at least it has your father so preoccupied that he can't watch you like a hawk anymore..."

"So you've been planning this for long? Sat in the shadows like some fat spider waiting for me to flutter in your web?" Lothíriel asked angrily.

"However unfortunate, I suppose that is not such a wrong description of what is at hand, Princess", said the lord lightly.

"And what do you precisely want of me?" she demanded to know.

"Just you, Princess. Nothing more, nothing less", Ocharnil said. He was still smiling that disgusting smile of his, and the men behind him laughed like it was somehow funny. She blinked and felt taken aback, but was still able to retain her composure. She couldn't let fear take a hold of her now.

"And why is that?" she asked in clipped tones.

Ocharnil didn't answer right away. Instead, he looked at his son, who was grinning beside him.

"You see what I mean, son? That is kind of the spirit we should want in our family. Your sons will share it, once the day comes", he told the young man.

"His sons!" Lothíriel exclaimed as a very profound feeling of disgust filled her. "If you think you can make me do _that, _you're seriously mistaken!"

"Dear Princess, there are many ways of bending people to one's will. I assure you, for all that you think yourself unbreakable, you will be just one in a line of many wild things we have tamed and subjugated", Ocharnil said nonchalantly. Had the two men who had lifted her up not kept a tight hold of her arms, she'd probably have jumped the man right then and clawed off his eyes. But all she could was just stand there and seethe, consumed by fury and the need to commit extreme acts of violence on these two "lords", and thinking _why on earth hadn't uncle let Éomer handle these pigs of men when there was a chance?! _

"My lord, for my part _I _can assure _you _that my father will not leave stone unturned when he learns I'm missing, and you're sorely mistaken for thinking he'd allow any of your schemes actually succeed. And not only that, for I would imagine he should be quite happy to call the Marshal Éomer of Rohan here, and together they will _end you _so completely that your forefathers to the tenth generation shall shudder in their graves!" she hissed through grit teeth. "But that is _only _if I don't murder you first!"

"Lady, if you actually believe you have any chance against us, I would recommend you think of it again. As for your father, he will not dare do anything when the life of his daughter is in my hands and mine to do with as I wish. And that northern brute has no absolutely no say at all in any of this; he's but an insignificant Marshal, and the news from Rohan have reassured us that he'll be dealt with greater hands than our own", said this twisted man before her.

"As to what is your role in all this..." Ocharnil said then, "When we win this war, many things will be rearranged in this realm. Faramir is not likely survive and even if he does, he is not the man his father is, and men like him can be broken and beaten. Powerful, determined men will have their chance at last. Your father could be a problem, yes. That is why I need leverage on him... which is why you're here now. If I have Prince Imrahil's precious daughter in my keeping, he'll have no choice but to do exactly as I tell him."

"Not only that, but once my line is united with yours, there is really nothing we can't do in this realm. You will be the founding mother of a dynasty that will last through the Ages", he continued smugly, "Is that truly such a loathsome idea, Princess? By giving the great and mighty blood of Princes of Dol Amroth to my grandsons you will be participating in things far larger than you could ever possibly dream of as some horselord's wench..."

* * *

**A/N: ***dramatic music plays in the background* Oh, I just love the drama. Sure, this all is going to places I did not expect and at this point I'm not even going to pretend this hasn't gotten out of hand. What was supposed to be max 5-8 chapters is completely out of control. That, I believe, was doomed to happen the moment I wove Galdegir into this story... and especially his father.

So, Ocharnil definitely plans on using Lothíriel not only as a leverage to get to Imrahil but also as a key to power. Obviously he doesn't know about Aragorn - he believes he could actually have some kind of supreme power in Gondor, because all the important men are falling, and Boromir is dead and Faramir at this point is gravely injured too. Also his information about Éomer is not quite up to date, like you probably already noticed. When he says that Éomer is but an insignificant Marshal and will be dealt by "greater hands" he thinks Wormtongue has already dealt with our favourite horselord as with Théodred. But Ocharnil doesn't know what has taken place in Rohan in the meantime and that Théoden has been restored and Éomer is the heir to the throne now.

One point I didn't remember to make about the last chapter and the fight between Éomer and Galdegir. I think this is actually quite a valid idea and I should maybe have discussed it in the text itself. Anyway, the thing about duels in Gondor is that the last King - named Eärnur - before Aragorn's coronation indeed died because he answered a challenge to single combat by the Witch-king. So ended the line of Kings in Gondor, and I believe this is something that left deep scars on the Gondorian culture and mind. So I don't think single combats would be treated too well in Gondor, because that's what ended Anárion's line. I'll have to add this detail in the text if/when I come back to edit it.

Hope you liked the chapter, and thanks for reviews!

* * *

**Ranger – **You disregard the fact that in Denethor's mind there is absolutely no reason for a trial. As far as he knows – due to what was a convincing show from Galdegir to him – all that took place was some tasteless jokes. Nothing to warrant a trial by combat, especially when most things Éomer has so far done have been the kind to put Denethor off. All he sees is a foreign troublemaker acting way out of the line. He's not just going to let young lords go having single combats, because those are things that tend to get people _killed, _and if we regard this strictly from the point of view of Denethor, the highest authority in the land responsible for peace and prosperity, is that really such a good idea in these dark and troubled years when the War of the Ring is getting closer?

As for the King you refer to, that was actually King Eärnur, who was the last king before Aragorn restored the kingship in Gondor. Moreover, his decision to answer the challenge was in my opinion portrayed as a rash and downright stupid idea that stemmed from wounded pride, and his Steward did all he could to change Eärnur's mind. And considering a single combat was what ended the line of kings descended from Anarion, would you really say duels would be tolerated in Gondor? One would think that would leave something of a collective trauma on the whole society and culture. There _is _a reason the criminalisation of duels and civilisation process have gone hand in hand, and you'd think that considering what a developed culture Númenor had (being the basis for Gondor), they'd have similar idea about it. I really do not understand this idea that somehow Middle-earth and real world always go 100% hand in hand and what is realistic for one is realistic for the other as well.

You're judging them by face value, I deem, with no consideration for context, the possibility that people might learn to make better choices,and the very core of Tolkien's thinking. As for your quote, you use it in a way that seems to imply people are made up by only _one _choice, not a whole compilation of them.

**Sandy-wmd - **Oh, too soon it was indeed. And I don't think Imrahil would anyway have been able to send away her. Like I've stated before, he is just too attached to his daughter, even if he is finally starting to understand that he can't keep her forever.

**annafan - **I'm glad you think so! :) Also it's good to hear my ideas about Ocharnil are welcomed. I mean, at least to me it seems entirely possible that this sort of thing would happen when Denethor is losing hope and the power of Gondor is failing.

**Le Pleiade - **He definitely has been quite the obstacle between our lovers, but essentially I think what he does is rational from his point of view.

**Talia119 - **Here's some more Mafiosing! :D Hope you like it. And yes, this story has gotten out of my hands quite badly...


	11. Chapter 11

_A dark shadow fell upon her and it seemed to her that the sun had sickened and turned black._

_- _Of Beren and Lúthien

* * *

**Chapter 10**

She had screamed and fought. She had tried to attack the two loathsome men, tried to make her way past them... she had even bitten Galdegir in his hand.

Yet in the end, what could she do about dozen armed men, all of whom were physically stronger than her? Eventually, they had thrown her back on the stone floor and left her locked in the small cellar chamber where she had come around.

When they were gone, she stalked the cellar room like a caged animal. There wasn't much there, except for a pile of hay in one corner and something that pitifully resembled a blanket.

Finally, when it was quiet and she was alone, the tears came. She was angry and tired and hungry and she could see no way out of this. How should she make an escape? On the other hand, did it really even matter now? Here in the cellar, wherever it was located, it was difficult to say what was taking place outside. But she had seen the preparations for war and she knew the battle would begin sooner or later. Lord Ocharnil could say what he wanted about winning the war, but in truth there was no guarantee of that. Chances were they all were going to die and there would not be a world left for the twisted lord to play his games.

But then, as she stood on the brink of abyss that was dark and full of despair, her mind went back to the last year. Her memory summoned back a night in the courtyard of her father's house... and strong armour-clad arms around her, making her feel safe and loved.

"_Please. Promise me that you will endure. No matter what happens."_

It was like she could hear his voice talking to her, telling her to be brave and strong. She couldn't give up, not even now. She had promised him after all.

Perhaps Éomer was coming. Perhaps he was riding for Gondor this very moment and if she could get out, there might even be a hope of reunion. She had to endure, just like she had said she would.

"No matter what happens", Lothíriel murmured and pulled her knees close to her chest to stay warm in this cool, damp cellar. Closing her eyes, she took long deep breaths.

_No matter what happens. _

* * *

Being confined all alone into a small, dark space does confuse one's sense of time. So, when the door opened again at last Lothíriel felt like it had been an entire week already, even if she rationally knew it was just her mind playing tricks on her. She didn't even know if she had ever in her life been left so alone, without any word of the outside world.

When Galdegir stepped in, accompanied by two of his father's men, Lothíriel shot up on her feet.

"Had a pleasant night, my lady?" he asked and gave her what he probably thought as a charming smile.

"You wouldn't even believe", she snapped, glancing from him to the two men with him, and wondered what was about to happen now. Evidently he saw her uneasiness, for his smile widened and he lifted his hand.

"Calm down, Princess. We've just come to escort you into more comfortable lodgings. This is not such a good place for a lady of your status, don't you think?" he asked.

"I'd rather stay here. Should remind you of what filth you are, imprisoning me and thinking I will just comply to your repulsive plans!" Lothíriel told him icily. Galdegir sighed.

"We can force you to come along, my lady. But perhaps you'd prefer using your own two feet? I wouldn't want to gag you either", he said. Somehow he was able to make it sound like he was doing a great favour for her. Then she realised the possibilities that posed: she only needed one good opening, and she might make a run for it...

However, the two men with Galdegir took a firm hold of both her arms before she could really think of that possibility.

"Sorry about that. Father insists on this. We can't let you run, after all", said the young lord.

"Perhaps it'd be for the better if you did. Because I swear to you most solemnly that I will never stop fighting, and one day you just might wake up to me strangling you", Lothíriel told him acidly. Her words didn't have much of an effect, though. He just smiled.

"That's what they all say", he answered nonchalantly. "Now, let us get going."

She half expected they'd take her somewhere away from this place, but in the end they just moved her from the cellar to the very top floor of the house. The hallways and rooms she saw were richly furnished and decorated by wooden floors and panels on the walls, but no other soul came across them on their way up. Nothing she saw told her what part of the city this was and if there was even a chance of her breaking out.

"My father owns several places like these in the city. He calls them 'nests'. This one is mine... you see, there are some things you can't bring up to the sixth citadel. Up there you need to keep up certain standards. But here? No one cares what you do", Galdegir said, grinning to himself as if to some private joke. "Don't worry. You ought to have a very good view from your room. You should take a good breath, though. It's quite overwhelming out there. Even I'm starting to wonder if we can win this war, like Father says."

Lothíriel didn't even bother saying anything to that. She walked ahead quietly, trying hard to come up with some way out of this – after all, once they got her to whatever prison they had planned for her, it was unlikely she'd get another chance of escape any time soon. The grips of men escorting her were tight, however... and the chamber they brought her into had but one door, and she immediately took notice of the heavy lock on it.

The room itself was light and airy and delicately furnished. It looked like it was meant for a high-born lady, but the princess did not for one moment think it had been made with her in mind. As such, she felt slightly nauseous thinking to what purposes this room had been put before.

"Well, do you like it?" asked Galdegir. Oh, if only he'd cease with that smile!

"I preferred the cellar", she blurted and glared at him. He sighed.

"I will leave you to it then, my lady", he said and turned for the door. "There are clean gowns in the cabinet. Someone will bring you food in a moment."

Lothíriel didn't bother answering. She merely wondered if she could make a run for the door... but then, it was unlikely she'd make it past Galdegir and his two cronies. Even then, she'd still have to make it for the front door of the house – the location of which she didn't know – and the house could very well be in some part of the city she didn't know. Her chances of getting as far as the gates were non-existent.

So, for the moment she decided to wait... her chance would come if she was patient.

When Galdegir was gone she made way to the tall window at the other side of the chamber. The first look out confirmed it was too high up to consider jumping out as an option, and the closest building was too far away. That did not engage her attention long, though, for her eyes were drawn towards the fields of Pelennor, and by the distance between herself and the fields she judged the house was located on the second level of the city.

The Pelennor she knew was fair and fertile, and with homesteads here and there. Now, however, all she could see of the land was vast dark masses slowly spreading there... seeing the army of the Enemy, she trembled. She had never seen or even dreamt a force so great, and she wondered: how should the walls of any city stand against it?

As dread filled her heart she thought of her loved ones, of her father and brothers Erchirion and Amrothos who had come to the city to fight beside him... of Éomer, who might not be on his way at all. Was this the end, then? Was she to sit in this cage while her family died, and wait for the inevitable when her own life would end too?

Food came and some water for bath too, but Lothíriel made no move to use any of those things. Instead, she remained by the window and looked out, regretting all the goodbyes she had not said, and all the things she could not do now.

Yet even as she stood there at the end of her hope, she thought of what she had promised to the man she loved. Carefully, she pulled back her sleeve... and there it was, the bracelet of wood and leather. Like many times before, when she had felt hopeless and the way ahead had seemed bleak, looking at it brought her strength. The sight of it took her what seemed like an eternity and a dream away... how focused had been the look on his face when he had fastened it around her wrist. She thought of that afternoon up in that secret chamber, and though it now brought tears in her eyes it also somehow made her feel stronger.

_We are fighters, him and I... _

And so she sat down and ate, and washed herself the best she could. To the mentioned gowns she paid no heed, because that wasn't something her pride quite allowed... instead, she sat by the window and fingered in her hands the hairpin she had completely forgotten about during her little rampage back in the cellar. Now Lothíriel was glad she hadn't made use of it there, because against several armed men it was a pathetic weapon, and sweeping around in this chamber had confirmed there was really nothing here she could use to hurt her captors. But the needle in her hair against just one unsuspecting foe... she thought of what she had once told Éomer: _"He'll find a hairpin in a place where it hurts the most." _

The thought brought her some dark satisfaction, and for the moment Lothíriel allowed herself to relax, insane as it was when outside the fate of their world was in the course of being decided.

For now, she had to gather her strength and wait for the right time.

* * *

Lothíriel had been dozing off when the key rattling in the lock alarmed her, and she nearly fell from the couch she had sat on. Her body instantly tensed and her heart picked up speed, as if expecting violence.

Well, violence _was _what she wanted to do when she saw that sickly sweet smile on Galdegir's face when he entered. Briefly she wondered if he had any idea of just how disgusting he was to her.

Somewhere in the middle of all this insanity and darkness he had actually found flowers, which he was carrying now.

She said nothing. She just stared at him.

"Hello there. Have you gotten any rest? Did you eat? Oh, I see you've emptied the whole tray. That is good. I was already fearing you might try some silly hunger strike or something like that", he prattled away.

"If you have something to say to me then say it. I've no interest in any empty talk", Lothíriel answered coldly. That made him frown, but only very briefly. He put aside the flowers and sat beside her.

"Do we really have to fight like this, my lady? I know all this has been quite unpleasant, and Father was not perhaps all too gentle with you, but why should our union be a bad thing? Think of all the things we could achieve together!" he said, giving her a hopeful smile.

"You mean, what your father could achieve by forcing mine to do his bidding?" she asked sharply. "He was quite clear what should happen if he gets his way. He thinks he can and should run the place, as if he somehow had the right! I will not have any part in that, and if I ever get a chance I will kill you both! And I truly don't understand what has convinced you that _my entire family, _and Éomer too, will just sit idly by and let this happen!"

"Now, please calm down. Think of all the possibilities! Think of all the things you could have... your position would be high as a queen's!" he said very patiently.

"Oh, your dear father was very clear about _my _position! In his perfect world I have only one position, and that is on my back popping out _your _children", she snarled.

"There's no need to be crude about it, Princess", Galdegir uttered. Now the frown became deeper and stayed longer on his face.

"The whole plan is crude, so how can I be anything else?" she snorted.

"Please, Lothíriel. May I call you so? This _will _happen whether you want it or not, and you can rest assured it is much easier if you don't make us force you", he said. Then, to her intense revulsion he placed a hand on her thigh and gave her a look someone in some other situation might have called smouldering. "It could be nice, you know..."

She wasted no time in pulling out the hairpin in her hair. Blind rage turned her blood into fire, and she wanted to hurt him and make him suffer so that he'd beg for mercy. In her fury, she thrust the blade of her hairpin into the back of his hand, and she drove it in with enough force for the head of it to come through and scratch her own thigh.

Galdegir let out what could only be called a shriek. He jumped up and with his good hand he slapped her so hard that she fell from the couch.

"You little demon!" he yelled in furious shock. "You will bend and break, and then you'll pray that you had agreed to do this the easy way!"

He turned and left and the door was thrown closed behind him. All things considered – even if she had lost her only weapon – Lothíriel couldn't help but feel a bit self-satisfied when she had calmed down.

* * *

The thundering noise of war machines at work began the next day. There were at least catapults, which quickly brought Lothíriel great discomfort, for she was locked up in a top floor of a house in the second level... and judging by the sounds she was on the range of catapults. All it took was one well-aimed shot and she'd be buried here. One thing she knew for sure: she didn't want to die in this horrible place. If death was her fate, she'd rather meet it on her own terms, and preferably surrounded by her family members rather than twisted lords who thought her nothing but a means to an end.

Sometimes, she'd hear loud crashing noise from outside, and she'd know the catapults were hammering the city, and she couldn't but wonder how her father and brothers were doing in the middle of that calamity. As she sat huddled on the corner, her forehead against her arms, she kept asking herself why she had kept refusing to leave the city. Father had known it would be like this, and he had wanted to shelter her from it... yet stubbornly she had lingered. And now she was here as a prisoner, and even if the city should somehow prevail Lord Ocharnil was bent on making her a pawn in his game of power.

It was by afternoon of that dark day that the door was again opened. A guard had on the morrow brought some food but she had felt little appetite. When Lothíriel heard the key turning she thought it would be Galdegir, and she assumed a hard an unrepentant look... but instead, Lord Ocharnil himself stepped in.

He was wearing an armour – a rich thing even on Gondorian standards – which surprised her. She'd have thought men like him always had an excuse ready as to avoid being sent into battle. But she did not allow surprise enter her face, and rather met his gaze with unfaltering loathing.

"Princess Lothíriel", he spoke. She could see some dark mood was on him now, and she wondered what it was about.

"What is it?" she asked. "Have you come to release me?"

"Don't be ridiculous, Princess", he scoffed and halted to stand in the middle of the room. He rested his hand on the hilt of a sword and briefly she even wondered if he meant to kill her. Ocharnil apparently guessed her thoughts for he let out a dry little laugh, "Don't look so worried, lady. I'm not here to take your life... even if you'd deserve it for what you did to my son."

"He got what he deserved. I didn't give him permission to touch me", she said stiffly and lifted her chin.

For a man who couldn't precisely be called young anymore Ocharnil moved fast and sharp. Before she could react he was on the front of her, and the slap of his hand against her face left her skin stinging with pain.

"You, Princess", he hissed, "are in no position to give permissions to anyone."

She stumbled back and covered her cheek with a hand, feeling it burn under her palm. Though the pain was acute it fed more her anger than her fear.

"You may have put in me in a cage but my will you shall not have!" she snapped back.

He hit her again, only it was harder this time, and made her again see stars. She didn't fall in the darkness this time, though.

"Lady, you seem to be under the impression I consider you above disciplinary actions. If you do not learn to conduct yourself and keep your mouth shut, _you will suffer for it", _he said coldly, his voice barely more than a whisper. "So, Princess, I would suggest you behave from now on. If you as much as cut a head from my son's head, you will face the repercussions."

"And you believe I am actually scared of those repercussions? If you actually want to carry through your little scheme, and have me producing children you so wish for, you can't kill me or harm me too seriously. For your information, you can't beat me into obedience!" Lothíriel hissed.

He pushed her against wall then, and pressed his steel-clad arm against her wind-pipe. Gasping for air, the Princess tried to struggle against his grip, but he was too strong... he kept his arm there long enough for her vision to start darken, at which point he finally let her go and she fell on the floor.

"You cling to that thought now", Ocharnil answered in cool tones which were now calmer, "but that is only because you have no idea of all the ways one can be made to suffer. If you do insist on fighting back, I promise you _will _know them. But not quite yet, as first there is this war to be won. Now I must go, for that damned wizard Mithrandir demands all men on duty – including myself and your future husband. However, do not think I will be forgetting about this conversation. You just wait, Princess. You just wait."

"Oh, I'll be waiting", she rasped breathlessly.

He glared at her in frustrated anger, but for now he let the matter wait.

"You may rest assured this is not the last we speak of this. When I return, you will learn obedience, Princess", he said icily. Then he turned and left her there, still catching her breath.

When she looked in the mirror, her face was bruised and her right eye was walling up.

* * *

The day had been long as an Age and outside the noises of battle went on. After Lord Ocharnil had gone she had returned her seat on the corner, where she sat waiting... well, she wasn't sure what she waited for. She tired to keep up her spirits by reciting some of her favourite poems and even singing songs about great heroes of old. At some point her voice had died and she had sat quiet, wondering where those heroes had found their calm and their courage... how they had pushed through the darkness. Had they ever felt despair and felt convinced they would not see their loved ones again? And if they had... how had they continued anyway?

But then an urge to slap herself came to her, and she'd have even done that if she had thought her poor battered face could have taken it without tears of pain. No, this was not the place for despair. She couldn't just sit back and mope, when she still had her life and her wits. Her fate was not set to what Lord Ocharnil was planning...

_No. _

That was it, Lothíriel thought to herself. Those two letters, put together, forming a rejection. That was how the great heroes had made it through: they had stood up, they had gazed at their doom, and uttered _no. _

_I promised I would endure. _

She got up from the corner and wiped the remnants of tears from her eyes. First thing she tried was the door, which he rattled for a while until she understood this was not her way out. Then she made for the window and again made the judgement that jumping out was just tempting fates.

But then... then her eyes fell on the wide bed and the sheets there. They were good, rich material, and touching them was kind of disgusting even if she knew they were clean. Obviously there wasn't enough to reach the ground, but that didn't matter: she only had to get so close to the street-level that a jump wouldn't be too much of a risk.

There was a kind of irony there, if she should use these very sheets to escape... so she sat down and began to rip apart the sheets with the intention of making it a rope. She'd take her chances down on the second level rather than sit and brood away here waiting for the men remember about her existence and follow through their little plans. And Lothíriel was more than convinced she had already gotten quite enough of Lord Ocharnil and his vile son.

However, she had found her resolve far too late, as was evidenced by the collision of stone with the structure of the house... the catapults had found their target, and around her the building shook, the very insides of it moaned, and walls crumbled as did the very roof... Lothíriel leaped for safety, for the side of the room that still stood and seemed not to be about to collapse, but then something hard hit her head and she fell into darkness.

* * *

By all standards, Éomer of Rohan was a young man. He had not yet lived full three decades, and already he had seen much more death and war than most did even in these dark days. Since he had turned sixteen he had joined an éored and fought innumerable foes... how many orcs had died by his sword? He had long since lost his count.

But even he, grown into manhood surrounded by war, had not seen the devastation so extensive as these past months. First, all the ruin and darkness that had fallen on Rohan... Théodred's death, the uruk-hai running unchecked on their lands, and the war Saruman had brought to their fields... strife in the Fords of Isen, Helm's Deep, and the great ride of the Rohirrim from the Mark all the way to the fields of Pelennor... and though since Helm's Deep he had known the next battle would be even greater, he was not prepared for what he saw at last at sunrise when the Muster of Rohan came to that scene of war before the walls of the White City.

There was but two things this could mean, he deemed. Either this was the darkest before the dawn, or it was all about to end.

When he sat there in the saddle of Firefoot and regarded what awaited the Rohirrim, he was convinced it was the latter.

On that moment as the fell voices of Sauron's servants rose and he thought they were about to ride into their deaths, he thought of what had sustained him – what thought had guided him through these dark days and battles, like the very Star of Eärendil eternal and beyond all despair.

A thought of life, of love, of Lothíriel. If he closed his eyes, he could see her walking the fields of the Mark, unburdened in a day of spring when the war was a thing of past and they were free.

And so Éomer son of Éomund rode, to the hope's end and heart's breaking, to the thickness of battle and the swarming masses of orcs... and Gúthwinë he let sing the cold song of death, and spears and arrows he fired more than he could count, until it was just him and his sword, and all around him men died; but even more died the servants of the Enemy, and the fields were covered by the bodies of fallen. Like in waves it went, back and forth, and one moment he'd think he'd die, and the next he'd find some new stock of strength in himself and he pushed forward, thinking _now I will die. _

But the Silver Swan of Dol Amroth was borne from the city and men of Gondor came, and briefly and from afar he saw a face he'd not have thought to take place in a battle: Galdegir was there, pale and obviously terrified. Though this young lord was the last man Éomer would have expected to see taking part in a battle, he had greater concerns than that, for the battle still raged around him.

At some point, he lost Firefoot. His stallion was a warhorse but the horrors of this battlefield were a lot to handle even for a man, and he just hoped perhaps he might find the horse again after this all was done... if it _would _be done.

And Théoden was dead, and so was Éowyn, and to him they gave the standard, his to bear was now the White Horse... but it didn't look like he'd carry that banner for long, and he rallied his men for one last stand. _Éomer King, a Lord of his own only for one red noon before it all fell into darkness... oh, Father, would you ever have thought your son would die the same day he became the king? _

But he was wrong.

* * *

He had never really understood what a long way it was up to the Citadel. Well, before this he had always made the journey riding, so the observations about its length had been irrelevant. Much of the way up to the Citadel was partly blocked: survivors of the battle were making the slow ascent, and here and there on the road were large pieces of rock and stone – some from the enemy's catapults, some from the collapsed towers and houses. In this situation speedy travel towards the Citadel was not quite so easy, and often Éomer and his riders had to dismount and lead their horses by reins before being able tor ride again.

Perhaps it was strange, to make haste so... for the dead he was hoping to pay his respects to would not go anywhere. And anyway, walking felt good, crazy as that was. One would have thought there was no strength left in him to take even one more step. But some endured yet, and he had no illusions as to why that was.

For one hope remained for him, even now when all of his kin was dead: that he might travel up to the Citadel and find there a woman whose image had given him the resolution to live and fight through this day... that he might gather her in his arms and rest his head against her breast, and know at least an inch of peace in the middle of all this darkness.

He'd find her, or at least hear she was away in Dol Amroth, and she'd be safe.

_Lothíriel... _the only thing that was left. If she was here and he'd have the bliss of seeing her... after that, all else was irrelevant. The only thing was for sure and it was that he needed to see her.

As for his company, he couldn't really tell who was the most bewildered about this all, or mostly about the green and white standard that was carried before him. _Éomer King. _That didn't sound real or even sensible. Of course it had been a common knowledge ever since his uncle had been restored, as one of Théoden's first deeds had been to call Éomer his heir. And yet, even now, he was expecting not only his dear uncle to appear from somewhere and demand what precisely was he doing with the royal standard of Rohan and having men call him King, but also Théodred to jump from some corner and say it was all a make believe.

_Théodred... _

But it was just in his mind. Just his scared, confused, angry mind. _I'm no king. I can't do this. _

It was probably because of his exhaustion, both physical and mental, yet it felt like Théoden was close and murmured: _"But you must. Sister-son... King." _

_Why did you leave me here alone? _

It was dusk when they reached the second citadel of Mundburg. His men were just as tired as he was, and none of them were talking now. They just wanted to find some warm and soft spot and collapse there, and he couldn't blame them. He too might have shared the notion had his mind not been so full of troubled shadows and grief... and need for the one thing he had left in this world.

This part of the road was rather damaged, and they had to again dismount. On their way towards the next level they passed by many men carrying the wounded from the fields. The amount of the injured was indeed overwhelming, and those who had survived now had the heavy duty of finding their comrades who were still alive but incapable of making for the healers. Moans and crying had taken the place of war cries and shouts and the clash of arms. It was not unfamiliar to Éomer but never had he witnessed it in such magnitude.

And many of these men were doomed to spend rest of their lives in broken bodies.

He saw the burning house before he saw the man himself. The building was in full flame and his idly wandering mind considered the question of what had caused it. It didn't look like the work of war machines – most such fires he had seen on the way were already extinguished. But then, the battle and its aftermath had caused much chaos and he recalled hearing orcs had actually made it into the city, so an occasional house burning did not seem too extraordinary.

So it happened that when Éomer came across that burning house he also came to meet Galdegir son of Ocharnil once more. They were carrying him on a bier upwards for the healers to help him, though the new king could but wonder what was there to be done about the young lord's injuries. At least his leg was crushed, his arm lay limply at his side, and his face was covered with blood. He looked to be in pain... yet even in the agony of his wounds Galdegir did recognise the man who would have killed him.

"You're alive, horselord. I thought you'd make it, if anyone would", he rasped from the bier.

"Why do you care?" asked Éomer bluntly. Even this sight of Galdegir, pitiful as his state was, annoyed him.

"Oh, I don't. I really don't. It's just beautiful irony that I'd see you now, before the end... here, of all places. Here, at _her _burial pyre", said the Gondorian, though speaking didn't seem to be entirely painless for him now. He coughed and grimaced, yet the smile still returned to his face."There's a kind of devastating beauty to it, isn't there? Watching the fire, and knowing something you love is burning there?"

"Spare me your nonsensical pratte", Éomer scoffed. He meant to walk faster and pass by that man, but the young lord wasn't quite done with him yet.

"That house burning there, horselord, happens to be mine. My house. And it's also the same house where Princess Lothíriel of Dol Amroth was brought by the men of my father. We had such plans for her... how it's on fire I don't know, but I know she was there behind a locked door, and there's no way she could have made it out", Galdegir said, smiling ever wider.

Now the Rohir had stopped, frozen there by the bier of the man he had so hated.

"You lie", he just about managed.

Galdegir let out a chuckle, but it ended in a painful cough.

"Why should I? What reason do I have to lie now? I'm dying, horselord. What comfort could it possibly bring me to spill out lies to you at this hour, if in truth she was waiting for you up in the Citadel? You'll go up there and try to find her, but the Prince Imrahil will only tell you he sent her to Dol Amroth... it may take few days to get the messages exchanged, but the truth is Lothíriel never even made it as far as Harlond. You may as well spare yourself the pain and the effort of sending messengers and just believe me. Your princess was in that house, and judging by that fire she's long dead", Galdegir said smugly. Though he must have been in great agony he still looked immensely happy.

And Éomer stared at him and saw no lie, not that shift in those eyes he had noticed a year ago when the loathsome lord had tricked him. He wasn't a man who believed lies or was easily deceived... and what he saw in the eyes of this hateful man was simple and plain truth.

A weight fell on his heart, and his blood ran ice, and he turned... he turned towards the burning house and he was running, running towards the flames...

"Lothíriel! Lothíriel!"

* * *

**A/N: **And I return with an update. I hope I won't be killed now.

I'm not sure I'm really too happy with this chapter and the next one, because apparently I'm completely hare-brained these days and can barely concentrate long enough on one thing without something else interfering. Well, this is the turn the story took here, and I hope at least it's exciting to read.

You may be wondering how Galdegir and Ocharnil were among those defending the city. Let's just say Gandalf had no time for their nonsense and kicked their butts around a little bit. Also I haven't forgotten about Ocharnil even if it is not stated in this chapter whether he has survived the battle. I promise more explanations will be given in the next chapter, including where that fire came from.

Also I thought that, considering Éomer is supposed to be someone not easily deceived, he'd recognise Galdegir was telling him (what he perceived as) the truth about Lothíriel - especially knowing that Galdegir has assaulted Lothíriel before. He doesn't know how and why it has happened, but for once Galdegir is telling the truth because he thinks he has nothing more to lose. Indeed Galdegir believes he's about to die so in that situation tormenting Éomer with the knowledge that Lothíriel is trapped in a burning house seems like the least comfort he can get.

Thanks for reading!

* * *

**annafan - **He certainly does underestimate Faramir, and anyway at that point he doesn't even seem like a serious player in the game. I mean, for all Ocharnil knows Faramir is going to die because of his injuries, so Ocharnil doesn't think he has to worry whether the Steward's living son could stand a fight.

**Talia119 - **:D At least someone likes it! And yes, if Éomer gets a chance people and places are definitely going to get hurt.


	12. Chapter 12

_Then Lúthien climbed from her prison, and shrouded in her shadowy cloak she escaped from all eyes, and vanished out of Doriath._

**_-_**Of Beren and Lúthien

* * *

**Chapter 12**

Eventually, she came back to her senses. There was a pounding pain in her skull and she felt a bit nauseous, but fighting her way back to the consciousness Lothíriel felt the blessed knowledge she was still alive.

Though her body ached as did her head, she sat up on the floor, where she had fallen. There she was, in the middle of rubble and dust and apparently this side of the house had partly collapsed: some of the ceiling had come down, and the boulder (roughly the size of a cow she estimated) responsible for the damage was more or less embedded into the building. If anything she had to applaud Lord Ocharnil for the sturdy build of this house.

Climbing up on her feet did nothing for the pain, but she had to get up and see if there was any way out now. True enough, the boulder had smashed through the floor of her prison and was so half in this room and half in the chamber below. However, it had also effectively shut the hole it had made, so she couldn't use that way out... as for the door, the roof collapsing on the chamber had blocked the doorway. There were stones and rubble and a huge beam presumably from the structure of the ceiling, and she calculated she might have been able to move it if her brothers had been here to help her.

But then even as she was about to sink back into despair Lothíriel took note of how the beam was situated against the wall, and the pieces of stone, and the gap in the ceiling...

_I can climb out. _

She was a good climber, after all – it wasn't for idle reason she had been able to sneak out of her father's house. Yet even so she would only be able to get as far as the ceiling, and she didn't know where she should go from there. And for the moment her head _really hurt. _At least the pitcher of water left for her had survived unscathed through the calamity with minimal spilling – it was located on the side of the room that had not taken damage – and she poured herself a glass, hoping it might clear her mind. She'd have to drink sparingly, as she had no idea when she might next get food and drink.

Having satisfied her thirst she sat down again on the dust-covered couch and rested herself. If she was meaning to climb she'd have to gather strength first. Perhaps a short rest would help with her head too...

Multitude of noises woke her up. Down below she could hear rough fell voices, and there was something alarmed about them, though the language wasn't one she knew... but then another sound pierced through the dull haze: it was clear and bright and it finally woke up Lothíriel.

In the distance, many horns were blowing... and even here, in her half-coherent state and with her head still feeling like it weighed about the same as a mûmak, she knew what this sound was. Rohirrim had come.

At first she didn't realise it was morning, because ever since the darkness had spread from the east all that had been left for the world was strange half-light. Anxious to see what was afoot she made way to the gap that used to be the window... but as soon as she stepped out into the open she saw the swarming just below her feet: the orcs were in the city!

Lothíriel pulled back as quickly as she could as to not be seen. She fell all the way to the back of the room and her thoughts galloped frantically. Had the city fallen, then? Were all seven levels in the hands of the Enemy? Her father and brothers...

But Rohirrim had come. Even now she could hear the noises of the battle from afar, and something that sounded like singing. She could but shake her head and let out a sound that was a mixture between sob and laugh. _Rohirrim! _It was so... so _absurd, _yet it made all the sense in the world. Of course they would be singing.

Perhaps _he _was there too...

What should she do, then? Éomer might very well be out there but that wasn't going to help her _here. _Should she move from this place or stay for now? At the very least it could be the safest spot for the moment, if orcs truly were in the control of the city. Suddenly, she was quite happy about the large beam and pieces of stone blocking the door: even if the lock wouldn't have held, the ruin before it would have.

Thinking about it Lothíriel eventually decided she should stay here for now and wait. It would be insane to try and take her chances outside, because she was not a fighter and even if she had been her survival would still have been unlikely with the city brimming with orcs.

So, with a sigh she fell down to sit again... listening to the noises of the battle, wondering if her loved ones were all right, and if she would even live to see the next day.

It was the longest, the most anxious day of her life. There she sat in her small safe haven, which she found ironic when thinking of how it had originally meant to be her prison. Outside the battle went on, seemingly doomed to go on forever... and voices of orcs rose and fell, and their tones gave no clue as to how the battle was turning out. She couldn't even crawl to the side of the gap to try and peer out; if she did, she'd probably find an arrow through her eye. So Lothíriel sat huddled in what shelter she could find, waiting...

It almost turned into far more than that, as at some point she could hear banging behind the door of the chamber. Then orcish voices spoke, and she froze. They were in the house!

Eyes fixed on the door she sat, not daring to even breathe, and she was sure they'd somehow break in. That would be the end then, because she knew she was not strong enough to fight and she certainly wasn't feeling well enough to escape successfully...

But for all the banging the lock and pieces of rock and the beam held on. For the moment her life remained spared.

The orcs outside evidently thought it a waste of time to try and make their way in, and their voices faded, and Lothíriel trembled in quiet relief. And then as she sat and shivered she found herself crying, because how long had it been since she had heard another human voice? How long was it since she had said goodbye to her father?

Father... oh, how she wanted to see him now, to throw herself in his arms and let herself be like a scared child. But Father was not here – he could very well be dead already, and perhaps she was the last one alive if the city outside had fallen...

A kind of a darkness fell on her and she became increasingly more tangled in this loss of time, and when she came around again the light outside was _growing _though she was certain it couldn't be another morning_. _Lothíriel dared up on her feet and she made her way towards the hole in the wall, and she could see that the skies were clear. Oh, the pain of not knowing what happened out there! Surely it had to be something good, if that awful shadow was gone?

At this point, she was really starting to feel hungry. She couldn't remember when she had last seen any food... it must have been yesterday, before Lord Ocharnil had made his unfortunate visit. Never in her young life had she been so long without any nourishment, and even a glass of water didn't do much to distract her from the growls of her stomach. And yet, as miserable as she felt, she thought again: _I promised to endure. _

Lothíriel sat again down and rested her head for a while, distracting herself with going through the genealogies of the Kings of Gondor in her mind, and imagining what kind of people they had been... had any of them imagined this was how their realm would end?

Because now it _was _starting to grow on her, the thought that this was the end. It had to be hours since dawn, but it didn't seem to her like the arrival of Rohirrim had tipped the balance to the behalf of the Men. If it had, shouldn't the voices outside the building be Rohirric instead of orcish? It was a depressing thought but at this point she was too tired and hungry and numb to really feel anything about it.

Something about the air changed when the day turned towards evening.

At first she didn't notice anything but eventually she came out of the dark paths her mind had travelled. Still, it took a moment for her to register what was wrong... but when she heard the alarm in the voices of orcs downstairs and her sight at last caught those curls of smoke pushing from the mostly blocked hole in the floor she understood what was at hand. Somewhere down there was a fire.

And she remembered the chambers she had seen downstairs, the heavily panelled rooms full of wood... perhaps even enough to build a fire large enough to bring down this building of stone.

Smoke was pushing upwards more heavily now, and Lothíriel understood she had to get out.

_I'm not going to die here. _

Her earlier idea returned then; she could use the conveniently placed beam to try and climb up on the roof, and there think something else. Well, upwards _was _now the only way she could go.

Before starting to climb she drank what was left of the water in the pitcher, and then she concentrated her attention on the task at hand. More and more of smoke was starting to curl from the gaps and through the crack under the door, and she knew the fire downstairs was spreading. In determination Lothíriel grit her teeth and began to climb the beam, taking support from pieces of rock and the cracks in the partly crumbled wall, slowly making her way towards the gaping hole in the roof... she had to be brave now, just like Éomer would be. She had promised him she'd endure, and she couldn't fail that promise. Not now, not in this place.

"I'm going to see you again. I swear", she muttered to herself as she climbed... seeing was hard, what with the smoke and the fact that her right eye was walled up, and it was also becoming more difficult to breathe. Up on the roof, there was not only brief safety but also fresh air...

The roof tiles were slippery and smooth and it took all her strength and focus to be able to pull herself up. Once she nearly lost her grip and fell, but luck was with her and eventually she was resting on her back on the slightly slanted roof. Lothíriel took several moments just to catch her breath and rest her aching arms, reminding herself to save her strength. She was not yet safe.

Brief glance towards where she had come confirmed that the fire downstairs was spreading ever, and she knew she had to move. The building might be sturdy, but the collision had probably already damaged its structure, and it was entirely possible the fire would have it collapsing. She might not die _in _the fire but it could still end her life if she stayed here.

Looking about confirmed the most buildings around the house were too far away for her to jump into. However, on the right side there stood a house that she just might reach if she was lucky. It wasn't quite as tall as the one she had been kept in as prisoner, but she could survive a fall of few feet, and anyway there was a balcony just below, which at least should cut her fall.

As she stood there on the edge of the roof she gazed below and saw the ruin of war on the fields of Pelennor: carcasses of mûmakil and innumerable smaller bodies, too small for her eyes to really make out, but enough for Lothíriel to understand what a devastating battle it had been. There was still movement though, for the battle had not ended.

She had thought the city had already been taken but as she looked down on the streets below she saw not only orcs but men as well, men wearing the garb of the Citadel and of the many lords who had come to defend the city. They were fighting, trying to push back the enemy...in her heart, Lothíriel felt her hope renewed: so the White City had not yet fallen! Her father and brothers might still live!

Her will restored and she looked ahead towards the house she was meaning to jump into. The smoke was rising upwards ever more thickly, and she knew she'd have to move soon.

She took breath. _Oh, Elbereth, guard me now and give me wings that I may fly to freedom... _

Then, with her will and strength strained to their very reach, she leaped.

* * *

It was a simple act of comfort and kindness that awoke Éomer from his dark and despairing thoughts: one of the healers placed a blanket over his shoulders, though it really wasn't like he could feel its warmth through the layers of armour he wore. Still he muttered his thanks and wrapped the cloth around himself.

The healer gave him a small smile, "My lord, it is late. Perhaps you should go and get some rest?"

The young king himself had no sense of the passage of time: it could have been day or night and he would not have cared. As an answer he just nodded but made no move, and the healer understood he was not presently very communicative.

Éowyn was asleep now, deep in a quiet rest where Aragorn's healing had taken her, and he envied her. It seemed like the new King of Rohan had sat here for years, eyes fixed on his sister's pale face... for she was the only thing he had left in this world. And yet, for all the horror and loss and grief he had seen today, all he could feel was cold emptiness.

The day had been too long, too full of losing. Uncle lay dead and so did too many a friend... and Lothíriel, sweet Lothíriel devoured by flames...

After the battle, Éomer had thought there would be no strength or madness left in him. He had thought he'd poured everything into that insane charge he had lead over the fields. But the sight of the house in flames...

He'd have run in despite the fire, and he'd have likely perished there looking for her. Yet as he had tried to rush into his death five pairs of arms had grabbed him and held him back. He had fought against them, he had howled her name, but eventually the roof of the building had collapsed and so had he.

_Lothíriel was dead. _

What a cruel fate it was, that he should ride here so close to her... only to find her dead on that moment when he was king and there should be no more obstacles between them. Oh, if only he had arrived sooner! If only he had been there to save her...

Eventually, Elfhelm had helped him up on his feet. By that time Galdegir who had brought him that accursed news had already been taken away, and Éomer found now he didn't even care what had become of the young lord. On his Marshal's urging the young king had forced himself to move, though each step he took seemed to tear at something inside him. When he had found his voice again, he had spoken: "Everything and everyone I've ever loved is gone. Uncle, Éowyn, Lothíriel... what reason do I have to go on?"

"Rohan is your reason. You're our king now – and the last living scion of the House of Eorl", Elfhelm had said gravely, resting a hand on his shoulder.

Firmly he had believed those words – that he truly was the last one alive, up until the moment they had come to see the body of Théoden King... and Éowyn was not there.

Finding her alive, and then her return to light with the aid of Aragorn was perhaps the only good thing to take place that night. Yet the young king had seen the shadow lingering in her eyes, and her despair had only fuelled his own... she had not come here to do great deeds, but to seek death. Éowyn wished no more life.

In a way, it was almost as bad as if she _had _died. Hope had indeed forsaken both children of Éomund.

He bowed his head and felt the burn of those tears he had not let fall, but he knew if he should allow himself break down here he wouldn't be able to stop it. And he wasn't sure what he might do. No, he couldn't do that in this place, beside Éowyn's sickbed...

A time of mourning would come. He'd shed his grief and perhaps it would break him then. But fight had not yet ended... no, this quiet was but the last breath before the plunge into the darkness. He had to harden himself for now, and face whatever it was that awaited ahead.

Perhaps he'd even see _her _soon.

"My lord, you really should go and take some rest. You look exhausted", said the same healer who had brought him the blanket.

"Aye", he muttered listlessly and got up on his feet, wondering whether he could persuade one of these healers to give him something that would knock him out for the night... for otherwise, he feared, this darkness would even follow him into his dreams.

* * *

It was quiet when Lothíriel awoke.

The noises of battle had died and about her a silence hovered, and she felt like she might make it through this. The pain in her head had turned into a dull ache; probing about her skull revealed a bump, and touching it made her cringe in pain. Obviously she had suffered a concussion back in Galdegir's house when the ceiling had collapsed... but evidently it had not been so serious in the end, considering she was still alive and could even move.

Sitting up she considered her surroundings and in her mind went back to her flight from the burning house that had been her prison. She remembered her leap and the terror she had felt mid-air... then falling on her stomach on the roof of that house she had tried to reach, falling back on the slippery tiles. Terror had reclaimed her and for one moment she had thought she'd slide into her death, but instead she had dropped on that balcony she had spotted from the roof of Galdegir's house.

Momentarily she had felt quite dazed and she had just lain there, but after reclaiming her senses she had considered what to do next. Down on the streets battle had still continued, and though it seemed to her that Men were on the winning side, Lothíriel decided she had no business in the thickness of battle.

But she couldn't stay on the balcony either, and so she had become a burglar.

Well, in her defence she had only broken into the house from the balcony because she didn't see any other way around. And tiles were abundant – by the courtesy of her fall, of course – so she picked up one and used it to break the window. Getting in through the window without hurting herself had taken some agility she hadn't known to possess (she knew one horselord who'd be interested to hear _that), _though she did cut her hand. Once she was inside she had taken a look around, and finding some clean cloth she had dressed the cut best she could.

It had seemed like the household of a wood-smith: the furniture was all made of that material and though simple it was well-made, and she judged the place was usually kept in neater condition. The inhabitants of the house had, however left in haste... and fortunately for her, they had even left behind some food.

In this situation the dry bread and leathery apples had tasted heavenly, and she washed down her loot with some ale. Nourishment instantly made her feel better, but also very tired. So she had sat down for a while, with the solemn intention of resting her bruised body only for a little bit... but like before, she had fallen asleep there and snored through the rest of the battle.

She felt better now at least, as did her head, and Lothíriel deemed it was time to move and see what was happening in the city. Looking out of the window confirmed it was either very late or very early, and quiet it was too... surely the battle was won then, if there was such a calm? She couldn't imagine the Enemy's army exercising such silence if they had won the day.

She had to leave the house same way she had come, as the front door of the house was locked. But that proved to be a small hindrance: when she returned to the balcony and examined her surroundings she could see that the stonework of the walls was uneven enough to even provide support for a climber like herself. So, knowing she probably looked like a proper burglar, Lothíriel climbed down and felt strangely more free than ever in her life.

Galdegir's house was now but a blackened shell. The embers had evidently died hours ago, and most of the insides seemed to have collapsed. The out-walls stood still, however, and she shivered looking at that place she had almost died in. Then she turned her back towards it and thought: _I survived. And Galdegir and Ocharnil are _so dead _when I tell Éomer of this. _

The pre-dawn hours were cold and she already thought of her brief safe haven with longing. It had been warm there, and safe... but she had to get going – had to find her way to the Citadel. Her father and brothers would be there – if they were alive, that was. And Éomer... perhaps she'd find him too. Oh, how surprised they would be when they'd see her! After all, she was supposed to be in Dol Amroth.

With a smile on her face, she began to walk ahead, pleased to notice she knew these parts – it was the main street leading up towards the Citadel. Now she had but to make it to the gates and announce herself... and soon, she'd be with her family again.

* * *

The quiet of the night was quite in contrast to the chaos and mayhem of the past few days. All the city had fallen silent now, as if startled into this unnatural quiet.

Rason was of the men of the city, recruited on those last days before the battle. He wasn't much of a fighter but miraculously he had made it through the battle with only few scratches. His wounds were indeed so small that healers had said he was well enough for duty, and so the captain in charge of his troop had given him guard duty through the night.

He was paired up with a man called Oderenion, who was of the men of Lossarnarch. As far as Rason could tell guard pairs were usually from same troop, but after the great battle many things were in disorder.

The gate between the second and third level had taken some serious damage as the enemy had just been in the process of breaching it when the men of the city had come with hope renewed. Now it wasn't much of a hindrance of anyone who might want enter the third level, and two of them had been ordered to stand guard there.

A third man had appeared as well, though to Rason's understanding he hadn't received his orders from the captain. The fellow hadn't even said his name and he stood some feet away honing his sword, evidently completely disinterested in socialising with Rason and Oderenion. Judging by his garb, he was served one of the Gondorian lords who had brought their men to defend the city as well.

"I'm not sure I understand why we need to stand here all night. It's not like any orcs survived", said Oderenion after a while, sounding he was saying it more out of wanting to fill the silence than of true interest. He had made it through the battle unscathed, and Rason was under the impression he actually had skill with arms.

"It's because of the lowlife of the city, of course", Rason answered. "Lords high up on the Citadel don't want them taking over the upper levels. There's lots and lots of empty houses there, since all the honest people have left the city. It'd be a bedlam, if the thieves and burglars were set loose there. And the lords have better things to concern them."

"I thought all the city was evacuated", Oderenion said, looking curious now.

"The lawful common folk _was _evacuated. But on the first and second level there's all kinds of shady stuff who never left. That's why we're here – to take care they don't try their chances now that the city is vulnerable and the high and mighty are more concerned with war than fighting law-breakers", said Rason. He scratched at the stubble on his chin and sighed. It was couple of hours before the dawn still, and he thought of bed and food with longing.

"I wonder how they'd survive through the battle. Orcs were in the city, after all", said his companion then.

"This city has stood here for many generations of men. That's enough time for all kinds of rats dig themselves secret holes and hiding places. And orcs were here for how long? A little over a day? You think flooding out the dark crannies and corners was their primary concern?" Rason answered and shook his head.

Oderenion looked like he'd have commented something, but the attention of two men was then sparked, for a figure of what they took for a woman was approaching them. Rason tensed at first but then took note of her appearance: though she was kind of tall she also looked filthy and battered. Not much of a menace, really.

"Gentlemen", she greeted them, "I'd ask you to let me pass through the gate."

"You have the password?" Rason asked, which seemed to take her aback.

"Password...? I fear I don't know the current one. It's not 'hammer' anymore, is it?" she asked.

"No password, no passage", Oderenion answered, leaning on his spear. The woman's eyes widened.

"Please. You have to let me pass. I need to find my father", she pleaded, sounding just a bit scared now.

"We have orders not to let anyone pass through these gates, unless in need of healers or other help. You don't seem like that, whoever you are. We're not to let lowlife like you among the honest people", Rason answered patiently.

"But I _do _need help! And I need my father!" she argued. "I'm no beggar – I'm a Princess of Dol Amroth. You must let me in!"

At that the two guards glanced at each other.

"Sure you are the princess. We happen to know all noble ladies have long since left the city", Oderenion told her.

"You don't understand – I was taken captive when I was leaving, and my father doesn't-" she tried, but Rason did not let her continue this nonsensical story.

"As amusing as your tales are, we can't let you pass. Now get you gone, before we make you go", he said with emphasised patience now.

"You must believe me! I really am the Princess, and I need to speak with my father immediately!" she insisted.

But then a voice spoke from behind them.

"Allow me to handle this."

Rason turned around sharply and his eyes fell on the third, unnamed man; he had entered the scene in complete silence and his eyes were fixed on the so called princess.

"It's quite all right. We have everything under control", Oderenion said calmly.

What happened was not what any of them expected, however. That instance Rason had spent looking at the strange man, the filthy young woman had used to scoop down and snatch a piece of stone. With terrifying accuracy she threw it... and there was something of a _snap _when the stone hit the man in the middle of his forehead. He fell down, and by the time the two guards had helped him back on his feet the crazy girl had already vanished.

The stranger was fuming. When he muttered darkly to himself _"he'd better murder that woman", _Rason couldn't help but wonder if she _had _spoken the truth.

* * *

By the dawn Lothíriel was already feeling not only cold but also miserable. The dull ache in her head appeared to have relocated in her hand, which she had cut, and she knew it was not a good sign. After the unfortunate incident at the gates she had run, and briefly the rush of fear and need to save herself had warmed her. But as her heart slowed down and she could see no one pursued her, the sweat on her skin turned cold and she shivered.

How should she find her way back to home now? The guards thought her some insane beggar, and no doubt that scary man was one of Ocharnil's ordered there to look out for her... he'd probably stayed there and now just waited for her to make another appearance. She could try and get arrested, but the scene at the gates had raised the valid concern that Ocharnil had his webs ready to catch her, and he'd get to her before her father heard anything.

She walked about for a while, if just to stay warm. The hours before dawn were indeed chilly, and she had no cloak: the one she had worn upon her departure had likely burned with Galdegir's house. Rubbing her arms she ventured forth on the quiet streets.

Eventually she had started to feel more and more exhausted, and her body ached from all the abuse it had been forced to endure. All she wanted was just to curl into a ball somewhere, perhaps cry a little bit, and then sleep... maybe everything would be fine when she'd wake up, and this all would turn out but a nightmare.

But then she came across something she had not expected.

There was a small square kind of area, surrounded by buildings on three sides and on one side was the wall of the third level of the city. What she saw there was some kind of a bonfire, and the mere sight of it made her fingertips warm.

Around the bonfire people were huddled – she counted at least two dozen of them. Some stood, some were sitting. Having lived a sheltered life Lothíriel had never seen people like this, but even she knew enough to realise these were the poor and wretched of the city, gathered around a fire that would not have been tolerated had the city's guard been in the state of normalcy. How they had survived through the battle she didn't know, but then perhaps they had ways of enduring even the darkest of things.

"Oi there! Pretty lady!" called one of the men. Much was not to be said about the rags he wore for clothes, but he had a enough beard for two people, and over his left eye he wore a patch.

"I – I was – can I stay here for a while? I'm cold", she mumbled awkwardly and cast a longing look at the fire. Curious looks were cast towards her, and suddenly Lothíriel felt very small.

"Of course you can stay! Come here and I'll keep you warm, pretty lady!" called the man, which roused a roar of laughter among others present.

"Shut it, Tholvel!" called a new voice. Though it was husky to the point of being raspy, it was a woman's voice nonetheless. She was very tall for a woman and her shiny black hair was cropped short. Her eyes were large and their shade was extraordinarily brilliant blue, which actually did distract one's gaze from her clefted lip. She spoke again, "Don't you see the poor thing is cold and terrified? She doesn't need your filth."

Tholvel seemed to mutter something to himself, but he made no move to defy her. Lothíriel blinked, staring at the strange woman.

"I'm not terrified", she said listlessly, which made the woman smile. The expression looked kind of odd with her malformed lips, but apparently she did not even register it.

"Of course. Get closer to the fire if you want – you look like you're about to turn into an ice cube right there", she said and took a gentle hold of Lothíriel's shoulders. "I'm Ant. Pay no attention to those scoundrels. If they ever had any manners, they've long since forgotten about it. They don't mean bad, though."

"T-thank you", was all Lothíriel could really say, and she let the woman lead her closer to the bonfire. Warmth was finally starting to seep into her bones.

As the feeling of cold began to subside exhaustion took its place, and she nearly fell down very ungracefully.

"Careful there. We don't want you hurting yourself", Ant said, catching her before she could really fall, and helped her to sit down. "Are you all right, little one?"

"I... I just need to rest for a moment", Lothíriel answered, reaching her cold-stiffened hands towards the flames.

"Oh, that's right. Let's just sit for a little while, then", said the woman. She cast a look about herself, and her eyes fell on a short burly man, "Oi, Draug! Come here and give me your cloak!"

The princess expected the man tell her no, but to her surprise he got up on his feet, unfastened his cloak, and offered it to Ant.

"There's a good fellow", she said in something of a motherly fashion, and placed the dirty garment around Lothíriel's shoulders. "That's better. We need to get you warm."

"Thank you", she eventually blurted out, having been able to shake off some of her growing confusion.

"You're welcome. Draug runs hot anyway – the man is a walking furnace, really – and you do look cold", Ant answered. She narrowed her eyes then, "Now tell me: how did a lady of noble birth end up here?"

"It's that obvious?" Lothíriel asked weakly. She hadn't meant to say anything of her identity, as she didn't know if these people could be trusted, but of course this strange woman would see right through her.

Her question brought a crooked smile to Ant's face, twisting it into even more peculiar expressions.

"Sweetheart, when you've lived this kind of life as long as I have, you learn to look around yourself. Like you would recognise a noble from a league away, I recognise my own folks as well. Not only those, though. It's pretty obvious you don't have the street smarts, little one", she answered, not ungently. Lothíriel lowered her eyes and nodded.

She asked then, "If that's so, why are you helping me?"

Ant laughed, and the noise was like silver bells. The princess had never heard anyone having a laughter so attractive.

"Because you're lost and alone and look like some kindness would do you good. We may be beggars and thieves and prostitutes down here but we're not orcs", she answered, like it was the most obvious thing on earth.

Another "thank you" was really all that she could say, and gently Ant patted her shoulder.

"What... what are you burning there?" she asked, nodding her head towards the bonfire, which made the woman beside her shrug.

"Just an interior of a tavern, I believe. And some orcs we killed", Ant said nonchalantly.

"... oh", Lothíriel managed. There wasn't really much she could say to that.

"About that question – how I ended up here", she said then slowly, "it's... well, it's kind of an insane story."

"Believe me, I've seen lots of insane things", answered the other woman. She dug through a small purse on her belt then, and pulled out a piece of bread, "Care to join the story over some food?"

"You'd share that with me?" Lothíriel asked, though the idea of food did make her stomach growl.

"Why wouldn't I? You look positively gaunt, sweet lady", Ant answered and broke the bread in half. She offered the other piece to the princess, "Just take that damn bread."

The younger woman understood she couldn't refuse this, and so she accepted the food. Then, after taking a bite and chewing it, she began to explain just how she had ended up in this place.

The light of morning grew as she recited her tale. Ant listened to her quietly, only stopping her few times when she had needed some clarification on this or that matter. Not only did it feel good to hear human voices but also to talk to someone who wasn't planning evil things for her. And the compassionate look in Ant's brilliant blue eyes made her feel much more better.

"Now there is something to tell your children about", she said when Lothíriel had finished the story. "I suppose that's not something ladies of your standing usually deal with?"

"Not at all. My father will probably climb on walls when he hears of all this. He's rather protective of me", said the princess with a weak little smile.

"Oh, I can imagine", Ant agreed. She frowned then, "I believe we should get you home, sweetheart. This is no place for you, and I don't want you ending up in the hands of that fiend again. Now, I can't get you though the gate – the guards are very strict about that – but I should imagine the lords are bound to ride through it sooner or later. We just need to catch one of them. Someone is bound to recognise you, don't you agree?"

"Yes!" Lothíriel exclaimed, smiling happily. Finally some luck! "If you help me to get home, I would be forever grateful – my father would be too."

"Then perhaps we should get going? It's morning, after all, and I would assume the high and mighty too have already woken up", Ant said and got up on her feet. Se offered her hand to Lothíriel, but when she rose up her head instantly swam and she felt very weak. Speaking with Ant, and the possibility of getting home had also distracted her from the ache in her hand which was not dull anymore, but more of a burn.

"Easy there!" said the older woman and caught her by elbow. "You don't look so good."

She felt Lothíriel's forehead and looked worried, "You have a fever!"

"All the more reason to get me home. It's all right – I can do this", insisted the princess, though it would have been a lie to say she felt very strong.

"Are you sure?" Ant asked, frowning as she spoke. She didn't seem too convinced.

"I _must _do this. Please, help me. I have to get home", Lothíriel pleaded. The older woman sighed and didn't seem too happy, but she did nod.

"Well then. I suppose we should just go. Loitering here isn't going to help, after all", she decided.

They were just about to take their leave when Lothíriel remembered she was wearing a cloak that belonged to someone else.

"Wait!" she said and quickly unfastened the garment. Then she approached Draug carefully and gave him a tentative smile. The short man answered her gaze in a way that might have made her feel slightly scared in any other situation. But now she did not.

"Thank you for the loan, Master Draug", she said, kissed his forehead, and turned towards where Ant was observing the scene. When Lothíriel joined the older woman and Ant placed a supporting hand on her elbow, she gave the princess a smile.

"He'll treasure that kiss 'till the end of his life", said Ant without a hint of humour.

They began to make way for the gates – not those of the third citadel, though, as Ocharnil's henchmen would probably be there. As they walked Lothíriel felt the exhaustion and weakness more strongly than before, but having warmed up and getting food – however little – had restored some of her strength. Moreover, her will was restored as well, and the thought of seeing the faces of her loved ones was a thought that helped her to move on. Ant remained by her side ever watchful though, evidently expecting her to collapse any moment.

"You really shouldn't be moving right now", her companion said after a while, looking more doubtful now. Lothíriel could only wonder how bad she looked like, to warrant that comment.

"But I have to. If you go by yourself and tell them I'm here... well, considering the guards didn't believe me I don't think they'll be any more inclined to listen to you", she pointed out. Ant didn't say anything – she just sighed. The two of them trudged on, though Lothíriel had to increasingly lean on the woman on her side, and the pain on her hand was now a proper burn.

It took them quite a while, and by the time they were in the vicinity of Galdegir's house, the morning had already grown old.

However, it didn't seem like the luck was with them today, for two guards stopped them there. Well, perhaps it wasn't a wonder that they were, as the evacuated had not yet started to return, and so all who were about did seem slightly suspicious.

"You two! Where do you think you're going?" asked the taller of the two guards as they came to stop the two women.

"I'm just trying to get this lady here to her home. Perhaps you could offer help?" Ant said. "As you can very well see, she needs rest and healers."

"We have better things to do than help you scum in your mischief", said the other guard. "I suggest you two get gone. Beggars are not needed running about the feet of good and honest people."

"My father, Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth, should be very amused to hear that you're calling his daughter a beggar. We need your help!" Lothíriel demanded. An unimpressed look entered the faces of both guards.

"Your act is not too convincing, wench. The whole city already knows that the Princess Lothíriel is dead", said the shorter one of the two.

"What?! I most certainly am _not _dead!" Lothíriel exclaimed in shock and surprise. How had such news spread? After all, only Ocharnil and Galdegir had known she was in the city in the first place. Glaring at the guards, she continued, "You really should lend a helping hand and get me to the Citadel, because I will have to find out who has been spreading such an inane lie!"

But instead of telling her to move along the guards exchanged a calculating glance.

"I think it's really her. Didn't his lordship say she'd make another appearance sooner or later?" said the tall guard to his friend.

Ant was faster than Lothíriel. She pushed the princess behind herself and pulled out a dagger, which had been hidden in her sleeve.

"On your way, Lothíriel!" she snapped as she fell into a defensive pose between her and the guards.

The Princess of Dol Amroth did not really think as she staggered away and felt like despair would swallow her heart whole right then. Her head felt heavy and from behind she could hear Ant screeching at the two guards, but she didn't dare look behind because surely she'd see them killing her helper...

… but then she realised the direction she was stumbling, and she saw the burned shell of Galdegir's house... and there stood a dozen tall fair-haired men tall as trees – _Rohirrim were here – _and one of them carried a standard.

The wind stirred and the standard unfurled. And there was the White Horse upon green.

* * *

**A/N: ***breathes heavily*

Some of this chapter I like and some of it I don't. I'm not sure how believable you even find the twists and turns here, from Lothíriel's escape from the house and then her sudden alliance with Ant. Well, I blame too much coffee and too little sleep, and I suppose as we're already dealing with stuff like love at first sight and mafioso noblemen perhaps this works too. Anyway, I do understand if you, my readers, are not the biggest fans of this development.

Originally the story went a bit differently but I wasn't really too happy with it - or perhaps the plot twist here just was too loud to be ignored. Ant was certainly a big reason for why I decided to risk going this way, because I find I really like her. Plus, Lothíriel finding shelter with some lowlife of the city does seem to add up to the general idea of Minas Tirith falling into ruin and men like Ocharnil contesting for power.

In case it didn't become clear from the text, the fire was indeed caused by orcs. Some got into the house and I suppose they were looting the downstairs when - as so often happens in such a situation - someone decided a bit of fire would be exciting. Also I know I made implications that Ocharnil's fate would be discussed in this chapter but for the same reason I didn't go with my original idea he remains an unclear matter still.

Hope you continue to enjoy the story, and thanks for reading and reviewing!

* * *

**Sandy-wmd - **She did make her escape indeed!

**annafan - **I hope you like this resolution to her imprisonment at least. :)

**Talia119 - **It does seem a lot of people are quite anxious to see some proper beating up. I'll have to see what I can do about that. :)

**Mellon - **Oh, I know that feeling!

**Le Pleiade - **Wait and see, is all I can say for now. Also I'm glad to hear you liked the last instalment! And thanks for the compliment! :)


	13. Chapter 13

_But Beren coming back to the light out of the pits of despair lifted her up, and they looked again upon one another; and the day rising over the dark hills shone upon them._

- Of Beren and Lúthien

* * *

**Chapter 13**

After brief and fitful rest Éomer woke up at sunrise. It didn't feel like sleep had really released him of any exhaustion or grief, and the prospect of new day didn't seem to hold any promise. What moved him was duty, nothing else. Mechanically he dressed and forced down some breakfast, and went on his way.

He paid a visit to Éowyn that morning, but though it was encouraging to see her awake it did nothing for his troubled thoughts. She didn't seem too keen on conversation and he too felt like words had failed him. How to comfort her or give her hope when he had none for himself? So they sat, mostly in quiet, until she had reached for his hand.

Éomer looked at his sister and she met his gaze; somehow the loss of their uncle was all the more real then. After all, in many way he had been like their father. They sat in quiet like that for a while, both lost in their sorrows and this shared shadow.

"She was here... but I couldn't save her, and now she's dead", he said quietly, and his sister knew right away just who he meant.

"I am sorry", was all Éowyn said, and they spoke no more.

Eventually Prince Erchirion came and said that Gandalf had called them all into a meeting. It was to take place outside the city walls, where Aragorn had gone to stay, as he didn't think it appropriate for him to linger in Mundburg when he had not even properly entered it and claimed his birthright.

So Éomer bid farewell to his sister and promised to come and see her later, and together with the prince he made for the stables. Éothain had reported to have found Firefoot on the fields, which at least was a relief.

"How is your father the Prince?" asked the young king carefully as they walked. He had delivered the news himself, and he had a feeling that the look on Prince Imrahil's face upon hearing of Lothíriel's death would haunt him for the rest of his life... as would the man's anguished sobs as his sons had escorted him away from the scene.

Erchirion's sigh and the way he shook his head was now all the information Éomer needed.

"He's... well, you can guess how he is. He loved _her _very much, and I don't know if he's ever going to... you know. Amrothos stayed back with him, and we agreed I should represent Father today", said the dark-haired prince softly. His own eyes were blood-shot and it was doubtful he had slept much either. Éomer found he couldn't really answer, not in words at least. So he just nodded.

The eyes of the prince were melancholy but there was friendliness, and gently he spoke: "I see that you loved her very much, my lord. Perhaps I do not know you like she did, but I think I see what made her love you in turn... and I am sorry that Father only changed his mind when it was too late. It may be an ill thing to say now, but I wish he had let her marry you. She might be alive still if he had given his consent."

"Would that she was", was all that Éomer managed then; he couldn't have this conversation now, not yet.

"Any word of Ocharnil?" he asked then to get both their thoughts to other matters if even for a moment, but Erchirion again shook his head.

"None whatsoever. It looks like the man has disappeared from the face of earth", answered the prince with just a hint of anger. Yesterday, as soon as the word of Lothíriel's fate had been revealed, men had been sent to look for Ocharnil: Galdegir was by then delirious with pain, and could not provide any information as to why precisely had Lothíriel been in his house. However, Ocharnil remained undiscovered, and so did the reason why _she _had been in their hands. Though messengers had been sent to Dol Amroth, Éomer allowed himself no such hope that this was all some ruse and she was indeed alive. To him the fact that Ocharnil was missing was enough proof.

As for Ocharnil's son, Galdegir yet lived, but the healers could not say if he should survive beyond few days. After losing consciousness he had not come around again.

They did not speak on their way down to the fields, where many tents had been raised. Most of the Rohirrim, those who didn't need the healers, stayed there with their horses, as there wasn't really room for animals in the city. For Eorlingas it would have been unpleasant to be too far from their steeds anyway. The fields were far and wide, and there was enough space for tents even after the battle; already the work of clearing out the corpses of the fallen had started. The wind still came from the west and carried the stench of death towards east.

Many things grave were decided that day, and in the quiet dark of his thoughts Éomer welcomed the plan of war that was forged. It was very clear that marching for Mordor and challenging the Enemy before the gates of his land would be a deed courageous but of little hope. He was not fearful, though, and he gave his word easily. After all, the young king felt he had already lived through the worst he could imagine, and death in battle was a small thing when compared to losing all those he held dear.

When the debate was over, he sought again Prince Erchirion, for there was one thing that needed to be discussed.

"There is something I'd speak of with you, Prince", he said quietly, and the other man nodded. They made way outside and Erchirion glanced at him.

"What is it, my lord?" he asked. Éomer could not answer at first, because what he had in mind was something that tore at his heart even now. But it had to be taken care of, and so he hardened his will.

"It is possible that her body yet remains in the ruins. I would go and seek for her, with your permission... in your father's absence I suppose you're the one I should ask", said the young king; it was a wonder his voice did not come out choked.

Erchirion's face darkened and he looked away. He sighed and nodded.

"Father would probably want me to do it, but... you have my blessing. I have to admit I'm not sure I could do it. And she... I think she'd wish it to be you", he said in a strained voice. He placed a hand on Éomer's shoulder, and there was a moment of shared grief for the one who had been dear to them both.

Not trusting his voice, the young king nodded. He knew it would not be easy, and perhaps it would break his heart all over again... but unless he went and sought her body, and saw her properly laid to rest, Éomer knew he'd never be able to let go of her.

* * *

"How is he?" asked the voice of Marshal Elfhelm, effectively distracting Éothain from his thoughts. The other man was watching the King speak with Lord Aragorn: a stern frown, darker even than usual, appeared to have permanently settled on the face of their new lord.

"Grieving. That's really all I can say. He won't speak, not even to me", said the captain and shook his head.

"I'm not sure I really understand all that has happened here", Elfhelm said quietly. There was an inquisitive look on his face, though evidently he also understood these were delicate matters.

"There was a lady of noble birth. He met her here in Mundburg, when he was still serving as a captain and then a Marshal. She died last night in that fire", Éothain answered, keeping his voice low. It was no wonder that this was not a common knowledge. After all, though he wasn't one to hide his feelings, either was Éomer the one to speak loudly of them.

Elfhelm didn't seem to understand right away, and so Éothain continued, "He'd have married her."

That was enough information at least. The Marshal's eyes widened slightly.

"Really? Whenever did he care for marriage?" he asked. Indeed, the young king was not really someone to settle down just so... but then, perhaps even the most restless heart could be tamed. Éothain had never seen the Princess who had conquered the wild son of Éomund, but he knew his liege-lord well enough to comprehend she must have been something special.

So he gave the other Rohir a pointed look and said, "Exactly."

Elfhelm made a noise at the back of his throat and Éothain took it for a sign of understanding. Then he frowned and shook his head.

"Hmm. The fates must be twisted and cruel to bring in someone like that and then have her killed", he said pensively and sighed. He glanced at Éothain, "What of Lady Éowyn? Will she be all right? The lads were asking about her, but I couldn't answer."

"She's on the mend I hear. Lord Aragorn healed her", answered the captain.

"That is happy news. At least some good things happen too", Elfhelm stated.

"Aye. I dare not think what would have happened if she had died too", Éothain sighed, scratching his beard. Then he looked at the Marshal solemnly, "But mark my words: it will be a long, long time before the two of them are going to be all right."

* * *

Before attending to the heavy duty of finding her body there were some things for him to attend to, and busying himself with the responsibilities of the king at least distracted Éomer from those dark thoughts that would have consumed him otherwise. After making a round in the camp and receiving reports that things were as well as they could be and that the men were getting all the rest and food they needed, he turned again his horse towards the city.

The company came to a halt in the second level of the city. His men all wore grave faces when they dismounted before the carcass of a building that the flames had consumed... the outer structure of it still stood, but when Éomer stepped in from what had been the front door all he saw was rubble and stone and burned wood. A great rock, flung here by the enemy's catapults he judged, sat in the middle of it all.

His men did not come inside with him: they had enough discretion to give him a moment alone before starting the sad task ahead. They awaited outside for him to say his farewell.

Stopping to stand there in the middle of rubble, the King let out a quiet, wavering breath. The pain of her loss was somehow more intense here, but that didn't surprise him. This was where she had died, after all. Gazing from the rock to the blackened walls, he wondered: had she already been dead by the time the fire had started? Perhaps it had been the collision of rock from catapult that had killed her... it would have been more merciful than the slow death in fire, wouldn't it?

All the same, she was gone.

From under his coat he pulled out the ring. Silver it was, and a small blue jewel sat embedded on it, circled by two tiny heads of swans. It was too small for him to wear in his finger, but after she had given it to him he had always carried it in a string on his neck. It was proof, if nothing else was: that Lothíriel had lived, and she had given him her heart.

He bowed his head and found that breathing was hard, and soon the gasps turned into quiet sobs.

"I'm sorry", Éomer moaned, "I'm so sorry!"

The tears would not be kept back anymore then, and his sobs threatened to turn into anguished cries, which he could but barely suppress. Oh, Lothíriel! She hadn't deserved this – she ought to live, to be free... if only he had – if he had -

"My lord", came the voice of Éothain, though obviously reluctant to interrupt this scene of grieving, "there is some raving madwoman here. She demands to see the King of Rohan."

"Éothain, now is not the moment", said Éomer, fighting to speak in steady tones. He did not turn to look at his friend, though.

"Of course. I will see her taken away", Éothain answered softly. "Some guards seem to have trouble with another beggar. Permission to send couple of men to see what it is about?"

"Do as you wish", answered the young king indifferently.

Then Éothain left, and he'd have fallen right back into that shadow, but suddenly a clear, outraged voice screaming from outside pierced through it and brought a sudden morning... and never in his life had he heard anything as unexpected or absurd.

"_Éomer of Rohan, I swear if after all this time you refuse to see me I'm going to single-handedly invade that insane land of yours!" _

He didn't know if he was dreaming. He did not care; all that mattered was the voice he had not thought to hear again. And even if it _was _but a sweet dream that would only end in misery upon waking, this was still better than never again having as much as a breath of her. So he turned, stumbled across the rubble and ruin of fire, and dashed outside.

Judging by their expressions his men were positively convinced that she indeed _was _mad, and she certainly looked the part. Her face and clothes and hair were dirty, and she looked so battered and bruised that she must have taken a proper beating, but all the same it was her! Lothíriel was there trying to fight two of his riders to get to him and her eyes were shooting lightnings to every direction.

_She was here, and she was alive. _

"Lothíriel!" he called her name and he flew to her, pushing his men from way, and then at last he caught her. Oh, the bliss! He had no idea of how this could be, unless it was a dream that had brought her back to him... but then, surely only the real Lothíriel could scream and fight so and kiss him like this, and then murmur _"all right, I'm not invading"_?

A chuckle that somehow mixed with a sob was what he could answer to that, and he held her tight to himself, as if letting go would mean she'd disappear. For the longest time all they both could do was to cling on each other, and he was vaguely aware of tears streaming down his face. Relief had turned his knees into water and he very nearly fell down right there.

"I thought you were dead. I thought I had lost you..." he mumbled weakly into her hair when at last it seemed like he could talk.

"You know I'm hardier than that, you big oaf", she answered. But then she looked up and frowned, "Where did you get the idea that I was dead?"

"Galdegir brought the news. I saw the house in flames, and he said you were trapped inside..." said the young king and cringed.

"I _was. _But I was able to get out in time", Lothíriel answered and rested her head against his shoulder. Realising how close her death truly had been made him tremble.

"How?" he just about managed to utter.

"I promise I'll explain everything. Just... could you tell your men to let go of Ant? She helped me", mumbled Lothíriel. Now that she was safely in his arms he took note of how weak she looked – he wrapped an arm under her shoulders and held on tighter to her, supporting her weight so that she didn't have to do that herself.

Éomer looked up and saw two of his riders holding between them a fell-looking woman: short-haired and cleft-lipped she was kind of a peculiar vision.

"Release her. The Princess says this woman has aided her", he ordered. His riders seemed surprised but they did as he commanded. The woman named Ant (her name was just as strange as her appearance) shrugged her arms as if checking they were still in place.

"If you have helped my Lady Lothíriel, then I owe you my gratitude, Mistress Ant. I will see you handsomely rewarded for your service", he said, which made the woman smile.

"I did not do it in the hopes of being rewarded, King. But if that's the way it is done among the high and mighty, I will not reject it", she answered.

"You're all right? They didn't hurt you?2 Lothíriel asked, which made Ant scoff.

"I've fought tougher rats", she said nonchalantly, but then she gave what Éomer thought was a smile. She said, "Good to see you're again where you belong, sweet lady."

"That's only because of you, Ant. Thank you", said the princess solemnly.

"Just did the right thing", said Ant nonchalantly. She frowned then, "Those guards got away, though. The moment they saw the King's men coming they made a run for it... if I know anything at all it's they have something to do with that awful man behind this."

"You mean Galdegir?" Éomer asked. He too was frowning now.

"Not just Galdegir. His father too – they held me captive. I would explain everything but you're just going to get really angry when you hear, and this is not the place for it", Lothíriel answered.

To be honest the mere mention made him angry and the young king grit his teeth. Quickly, he thought of how he ought to proceed: Lothíriel obviously needed to be taken home as soon as possible and into the care of healers and her father. But if there was trouble afoot here he should clear it out... and find Ocharnil, before the man slipped away. The idea of letting his dear princess out of his sight was very unpleasant... and really, he'd rather deliver her himself to her father.

"Would you recognise those men if you saw them again?" he asked, looking inquisitively from Lothíriel to Ant. Both of them nodded.

"I will have to send some men looking for them – I do not suppose they will have gotten far", he decided. But then he looked at his dear princess.

"However, at first we should get you home, beloved. You look awful if I may say so. Here, let me help you up in the saddle..." he offered, and Éothain brought Firefoot by the reins. Carefully the young king helped his princess mount the stallion, if only so that she could rest her legs.

"You said you thought I was dead. Is my... does Father think so too?" she asked, suddenly looking very worried.

"He does. He... well, he took it very heavily", Éomer answered carefully. He touched her thigh gently, "Don't worry about it. We'll get you home and fix this. I promise it will be all right."

At that she smiled at him and he gave a kiss to her hand. Just the feel of her skin against his lips had his heart fluttering in mad joy, and he briefly considered lifting her back in his arms, and kissing her some more... but then he reminded himself that more than enthusiastic shows of relief and happiness she needed rest and the attention of the healers.

As he mounted before her and Lothíriel wrapped her arms about his waist, Éomer looked down at the strange woman called Ant. He spoke: "I would invite you to ride with us in the Citadel, Mistress Ant. Prince Imrahil will no doubt wish to speak with you, and anyway you do deserve every honour after the help you have given to the Princess."

He glanced at Éothain, who right away knew what his king expected. The captain bowed his head towards Ant, "May I ask you to ride with me, Mistress?"

"Gladly, if just to see that the lady here gets home safely", she answered, though Éomer very well recognised the slightly doubtful glances she gave to Éothain's stallion. Well, it was unlikely that she had ever ridden a horse, so he didn't blame the woman for her suspicion.

But Ant did not get to ride with Éothain, for just as the captain was offering to help her up in the saddle and the King's Riders were mounting their horses around them, a sudden clamour rose, and a company of riders and men on foot arrived to the square. Of men horseback there were ten, and rest counted at least twenty. On the front rode none other than Lord Ocharnil, which did not surprise Éomer too much. Of course he should have expected an encounter like this!

Behind him, he felt Lothíriel shiver, and she held on to him tighter. Her reaction instantly made an angry wish grow inside the King of Rohan. He had yet to learn all that this foul man had done to her, but what he had seen and heard so far had already convinced him they had meant her harm. And anyone who wished ill things for Lothíriel was his enemy.

"Lord Ocharnil", spoke Éomer in a cold and hard voice, "you have a lot of gall to show your face now."

"Well, you are in the possession of something that slipped from my hands, _King", _Ocharnil answered. His voice dripped with contempt when he spoke that last word, but the Rohir did not pay attention to it.

"No one possesses Princess of Dol Amroth, you villain. I suggest you lay down your arms now and order your men to stand back, and perhaps I will not kill you, like you'd deserve", he said, resting a hand on the hilt of his sword.

"In case you didn't notice, horselord, you and your men are severely disadvantaged if it comes to a battle", said Ocharnil, giving a disgusting smile that had Éomer bristling. An intense urge to hurt this foul man grew inside him, but he forced back his temper. He had to remain calm now. The Gondorian lord continued, "So perhaps it is _you _who should stand down, and give me what I came for."

The young king glared at the vile villain before him. To surrender Lothíriel! He'd rather die than let her fall right back into the hands of this swine.

"You would do well to remember the Princess is not goods you can just so steal and walk away without no one lifting a finger to prevent you", he said steadily. "And if you mean to cause a battle to happen here, how do you suppose it'll be received that you attacked the King of Rohan?"

A flash of anger touched Ocharnil's face.

"Then perhaps I should see no one survives to tell the story", he snarled, though from his expression Éomer could tell this was not something the other man had expected to happen.

"Really? You'd kill me and believe that the one who now awaits beyond these walls will let it go unnoticed?" he asked, maintaining the same calm tone that would imply _he _was the one with the superior fighting force.

"If you kill one king, you might as well kill another", Ocharnil answered. Obviously he had heard the news of what had happened in the Houses of Healing, and the word that by his healing hands the King would be recognised.

Éomer let out a cold, harsh laugh.

"Lord Ocharnil, if by some miracle I should not be able to end your loathsome existence, I can assure you that Lord Aragorn will not make the same mistake. We both have battled greater foes than yourself, and I am not scared of you. For the last time I demand you lay down your arms and surrender yourself to be judged according to what you have done", he announced. However, he knew to expect the refusal, and was not surprised when it came.

"I take no orders from savage brigands like yourself, horselord!" Ocharnil answered. He turned to yell orders to his men, and Éomer did the same.

"Eorlingas! Assemble!" his voice carried over the square, and the dozen men with him formed a line around him. That one last moment he took to glance over his shoulder at Lothíriel. Her eyes were wide but she didn't seem scared.

"Don't worry. I'll keep you safe", he promised her, but she didn't get a chance to answer; Éothain had lifted up his horn, and gave three great blows that seemed to echo from the walls of the city. Short and sharp they were, and Éomer knew it was but a question of time those blows would be answered.

The answering sound indeed came from afar and Elfhelm must be bellowing orders as the men dashed to their horses, but it would take a while before they would reach this place. Until then, the King and his Riders would have to hold out on their own.

Just before the Rohirrim and Ocharnil's men clashed Éomer had one moment more to see Ant slip away to one narrow street, fast and agile as a deer, and he knew that for Lothíriel her flight must be a disappointment, but he didn't blame the woman. For all her spirit she did not seem like a warrior... but then the matter of her became irrelevant, and he had to concentrate on the fight and guarding the woman behind him.

Ocharnil himself came at him. The man was wielding a sword, the strike of which Éomer met with his own. Beside him was Éothain, who had instantly taken up the task of protecting Lothíriel and his King.

As Éomer exchanged blows with Ocharnil he quickly saw that his opponent was far better at this than his son. Galdegir's father had talent and experience that the young man lacked, and in his hate was murderous fury that fuelled him against the Rohir. If this had been a true single battle it could have unfolded differently, but as he fought Éomer had to also pay attention to Lothíriel and keep her safe. So his attention was divided between the sword-fight and making sure she wasn't harmed.

"You should just give up, horselord! You can't save her", Ocharnil sneered as their blades locked.

"She already escaped once from your claws. What makes you think she wouldn't do that again?" Éomer shot back. Firefoot danced under him, and then made a movement with his hind-leg the King recognised as a kick to some poor devil; he didn't have time to turn around to see if his horse had hit the target, but it didn't matter as long as Lothíriel didn't fall. She held on tight to his waist and he could feel her trembling.

_He had to get her out of this place._

The vile lord gave him a glare and the fight continued in silence, though all around them noises of battle went on ceaselessly. Then a man appeared and tried to pull Lothíriel down, which attempt was paid back with the stroke of Gúthwinë, and he fell instead. This cost Éomer an opening against Ocharnil, which the man noticed as well and smiled.

But then as it started to seem like the Rohirrim were being pushed into a corner a fell cry rose over the mayhem. From the streets and small corridors men and even women were pouring to the scene, all armed with anything that could be used as weapons from peels to axes and pitchforks. At first Éomer thought these too were Ocharnil's men, but then he spotted Ant there too and to his complete surprise he realised she had somehow collected a force from the streets and brought it to help his men. Indeed, these newcomers – beggars and thieves and rogues – instantly fell on Ocharnil's men.

"Ant!" Lothíriel exclaimed from behind him and he knew she had seen them too, and he laughed. This had to be one of the most insane things he had seen so far in this city! The arrival of this beggar army instantly restored the Eorlingas too, and they gave out a great war cry.

He wasn't left to wonder about this for long, as Ocharnil was now driven by furious despair. Having seen the evening of their odds he fought more viciously to end the battle – or at least to kill his opponent.

Again their swords locked against each other, and the face of the twisted lord was only inches from Éomer's. There was a fierce scowl on the man's face, as if the mere hatred in his eyes could kill the Rohir.

"Curse you and your base people", he hissed, trying to throw back the King.

"My men are going to overrun this place in a moment. There's nothing more you can do. You're finished, Ocharnil. Give up already!" Éomer growled back.

"You can't kill me, horselord!" exclaimed his opponent.

There was a sound of horn, and it was only few blocks away. Elfhelm was coming, very likely leading a full éored of furious Eorlingas. Ocharnil's eyes widened... and there was the opening Éomer had awaited.

"I already have", was all he said, and then Gúthwinë tasted at last the life's blood of Ocharnil as the blade cut into his neck.

As Ocharnil fell several things happened.

One was that Elfhelm and his riders arrived to the aid of the King of Rohan, and the square was flooded with Rohirrim.

The second was that a tall, heavily muscled man threw a spear taken from a Rider towards Éomer.

And the third thing which happened was Lothíriel's grip faltering as she fell from behind her beloved to the ground.

* * *

**A/N: **Here's update again! I've been kinda busy, so I got this ready only now, and even that was after some difficulty in decising how things about this chapter should turn out. At first I had problems figuring out the matter of Ocharnil, but as you can see I did solve that matter eventually.

I did my best writing Éomer confronting our villain. I'm not sure how well I did, because I don't consider myself such a good action writer, and anyway like I said I had difficulty in decising what should be the circumstances of their confrontation. This was probably also because so many of my readers apparently want to see a proper fight between the two, and I didn't want to disappoint that wish. Hopefully I did manage to create something exciting here.

Also I can't tell how glad I'm to hear that so many of you like Ant! I'm rather fond of her too. :)

As for Ocharnil's motivations in this chapter, I'd point out that this situation is not what he planned. He didn't foresee Éomer becoming the King, but he's desperate enough here to actually try and take down our favourite horselord. One, he'd get his revenge; two, he'd remove someone who could become a problem as far as his powerhungry plans go; and three, getting to Lothíriel means that he has to get past Éomer first. How he stayed hidden until now is likely because after the battle he took refuge in one of the houses he owns in the city, and then had men out just in case Lothíriel was alive, because before she finds Éomer she's pretty much the only one who can testify that he's a damned villain.

All the same, the chapter ends with yet another cliffhanger. Originally I did not mean to stop there but then as I tried to continue it just didn't seem like a part of this one, and as a writer I'm evil enough to enjoy keeping you, my dear readers, on your toes.

Hope you liked this chapter, and thanks for reviews!

* * *

**solar1 - **And here's the reunion! :)

**Sandy-wmd - **Glad to hear that! I thought as well that it'd be more interesting to read, not to mention more realistic, if she had some difficulty in getting out.

You guessed right! Éomer and his men indeed came to look for her, but surprise was what did get instead!

**Mellon - **We've yet to see if things keep going wrong...

**Le Pleiade - **That is nice to hear - I was a bit doubtful of how that turn would be received.

And you're right - the encounter with Ant and her peers should give food for thought for all parties involved. As for Lothíriel's family, hopefully this chapter answers your musings about them!

**Talia119 - **I did consider going that way, actually. But that would have required a kind of different character than Ant is. I had two reasons I went this way: first, because if she tricked Lothíriel somehow it'd have prolonged this story (perhaps considerably) and secondly, because I wanted to create bit of a contrast to Ocharnil. Ant has a shady past, as do her friends, but I wanted to show that someone living that kind of life could still be kind and empathetic.

As for Ant's name, I'd imagine it's either a nickname or a shortened version of her rightful name.

**Katia0203 - **Thank you for your compliments! Really warms my heart. :) I hope you'll continue to like this story!

**annafan - **Oh yes, she's definitely someone who'll try to get out if she sees the chance.

She doesn't really figure out she could try and get help from the Rohirrim because she only sees them at the end of the last chapter, and she'd not only have known where to look for them but also whether they'd believe her.


	14. Chapter 14

_And it seemed to Thingol that this Man was unlike all other mortal Men, and among the great in Arda, and the love of Lúthien a thing new and strange; and he perceived that their doom might not be withstood by any power of the world._

_-_ Of Beren and Lúthien

* * *

**Chapter 14**

One's feverish eyes see strange things. The moments freeze, at the edges of vision there are odd shadows, and when you should feel terror you only feel kind of detachment.

It was probably inevitable that her strength should leave her: the rush Lothíriel had felt when she had realised just _who _now was the King of Rohan and Éomer was here was now spent, and at last in the middle of the battle she could not hold on any longer.

Her arms fell from around his waist and the support of her body gave in, and she fell. For one endlessly long instance she fell, and thought it was the end... but she never came in contact with the ground. No, there were arms to catch her. She looked up and to her surprise saw the face of none other than Draug, the man who had lent her his cloak... he was there, and he had broken her fall. And as she lay there she looked at her dear horselord: how his stallion leaped and then reared, and a spear that would have ended the day in tragedy if not for that mad leap Firefoot made just then.

Lothíriel marvelled at how it looked like, the man and his horse, and their silhouette against the bright sun of early afternoon. Somehow, it didn't look real, though there was wild beauty to it. A great cry rose in the square: _"Eorlingas! To the King!" _

Seeing her dear Rohir would be all right, she let go and fell into darkness.

The next thing she knew was frantic voices. Someone was carrying her, and she felt leather against her cheek. Fighting for full consciousness resulted in nothing but spinning in her head, but she saw the dark golden hair and some matted blood in his beard, and she knew who it was. As long as he was there nothing else mattered. A sense of safety came to her and Lothíriel let her eyes fall close again.

The voices rose after a while, but when she looked up it was not familiar faces she saw. She couldn't really make out any words and she had no idea of what was happening.

"Father", she choked, desperately wanting to see him there... but it was not her father who leant over her. There was a smile, though.

"It's all right, Princess. You're safe. Your father is outside – you'll see him soon", said the voice – at least she understood she was in the Houses of Healing.

She felt relief and sighed. They made her drink something and unconsciousness took her again, and a blessed comforting darkness overcame her.

"... they said she'd probably not come around any time soon. The medicines were quite strong", a familiar voice spoke through the haze of her dream. It was close, and there was a hand on her own. _Father. _

"I'd see her awake. I'd like to bid farewell before we go", said another voice; she knew those rich tones and knew her King was near. This knowledge, that her family and Éomer were there, calmed down whatever anxiety there remained in her heart.

"Hmm. We'd all do well if we went and took some rest. Tomorrow will be a long day... and Lothíriel is safe here", Father said, though he didn't really sound like wanting to leave.

"I can't leave her. She might wake up – be scared, if she's alone... no. I'll stay with her", Éomer murmured so softly that she almost didn't hear him. Nevertheless, his words brought her a sense of comfort, and she began to drift again, and sleep beckoned her. _He'd stay close._ The bed was so comfortable, and her body didn't feel so achy anymore... even the burn on her hand was gone.

"Perhaps it is high time for me to acknowledge the obvious... you really love her, don't you?" Father asked.

_He does, _Lothíriel thought to herself and let the dreams take over again.

* * *

The moment just before dawn was quiet. The candle by her bedside had long since burned down, but Éomer's eyes had adjusted to the dimness of her chamber. Perhaps too little sleep and too much worry made him see strange things, but it was almost like Lothíriel's pale face was luminous in the dark... he knew not, and cared not... as long as she was still alive.

Her chest fell and rose as a testimony to that fact. Couple of hours ago, a healer had been in the chamber and said her fever wasn't as high anymore, but she had yet to come around.

He had slept for few hours by her bedside, refusing all suggestions that he go and rest. He knew Imrahil at least was outside snoring away on a couch, and Amrothos had muttered about finding out whether there was some cupboard he could sleep in... Erchirion had apparently gone to attend to some running matters, but only after insisting word be sent to him if there was any change.

_Lothíriel... _

It was sometimes said that Éomer, son of Éomund, was a lucky man.

He couldn't tell what was the basis of this claim, because he had never felt like he was particularly fortunate. Orphaned at young age, grown to manhood in a restless time, making war his trade... and watching the world grow dark with shadows as his uncle slipped away certainly didn't seem like strokes of luck. Perhaps it was because of his fame as a warrior and the battles he had won, but personally he felt that had nothing to do with luck and everything to do with hard, relentless training and the determination to never give up.

But now that he was sat in this dark chamber and watched his beloved princess sleep, he did feel fortunate: for death had walked past him and touched his shoulder – hers too – but it had not claimed either of them. What had happened instead was that, maybe by some instinct or just alarmed by Lothíriel's fall, Firefoot had jumped aside... and the spear meant for him had shot past Éomer.

He had survived, but for a brief and agonising moment he had thought she _hadn't. _

However, that day Éomer _was _a lucky man.

All that had followed seemed like a chaotic mishmash of images and shouting and panic, and later anxiety and anger and waiting. After seeing that Lothíriel was alive, and yet again aided by one of the beggars, he had brought her up to the Houses of Healing. There her father and brothers had found him while the healers were attending to her, and once all three princes were calm enough Ant had shared with them what Lothíriel had told her before. Thinking back on the strange woman's story, the young king felt regretful for giving Ocharnil such a quick and clean death.

The healers had done what they could, and eventually the four men had been allowed to see Lothíriel. She had still been out cold and apparently would remain so for a while. Rest was probably the chief thing she needed anyway. Her brothers and father had quietly talked about something, but Éomer had sat silent and staring at the one he loved, drinking in the sight of her. _She was alive. _

He had only ever exited to pay a visit to Éowyn and receive reports from Éothain and Elfhelm, who had dealt with the mayhem down on the second level while he was taking Lothíriel to safety. Evidently all was under control again, Ocharnil's men had been arrested, and Elfhelm had invited the entire crowd of Ant's beggar friends into the Rohirric camp for drinks and food. The woman herself had come to the Citadel, and Imrahil had even invited her to stay in his house until the business of war had been taken care of.

The light was slowly starting to grow outside, and it was not long that a soft knock on the door alarmed him. Quietly Éomer made way there, and opening the door he saw Éothain. He had asked the captain to come around sunrise, for there were many errands to run before what awaited them today: this was the date they were set to leave for the Black Gates of the Land of Shadow.

"Morning, Éomer. I came as you told me to", said his second in command, and somehow the man didn't even seem sleepy though the hour was early. Éothain frowned, "Have you gotten any rest at all?"

"I did sleep for a while", said the younger man, but the frown did not disappear from his friend's face.

"You know exhausting yourself is not a good idea, not before this campaign", he said disapprovingly.

"Oh, I know", Éomer answered, knowing it was pointless to argue about this with his captain. "I'll rest afterwards." _Be that grave or a bed... _

Éothain grumbled, but the King gave him no chance to complain. He said, "Wait here for a minute. I need to tell her goodbye."

"She's awake?" asked the captain, and his question made Éomer sigh.

"No. But I will not leave just like that", he said firmly. His friend nodded and made no attempts to prevent him, and the young king returned into the chamber where his dear princess rested.

Quietly, he sat at the edge of her bed and picked up her uninjured hand. She looked peaceful and some colour had returned to her skin that had looked so ashen, and it felt so wrong to leave her like this... but he had to go.

"Lothíriel... wake up. Just for a moment. Please, wake up", he murmured and brought her hand to his lips. But though he called for her name and pleaded her to open her eyes, she remained in that land of dreams, far from his reach.

He sighed and rested his cheek against the palm of her hand, closing his eyes. He could feel the light of new day warming his skin, and knew it was time to go. So he leant down to kiss her, and run his fingers through her hair. Then, resting his forehead against hers, he murmured: "I will come back to you."

* * *

Upon surfacing from the depths of sleep Lothíriel was not quite sure of where she was, what had happened, and how long had it been since _anything _at all had happened.

But then memories stirred in her mind, and she remembered all that had taken place – and the nightmare she had been trapped in ever since she had bid farewell to her father.

Abruptly she shot up on the bed, and the fast movement instantly made her feel dizzy. Her heart beat frantically and she desperately sought her surroundings for her father. Then hands appeared, and Amrothos was there, pushing her gently down on the bed.

"Easy there, sister! Take it slowly, will you? Everything's fine and you're safe" he said calmingly.

"Where is Father? Is Éomer here?" Lothíriel demanded, though she didn't try to get up again. Her question brought a frown on her brother's face, instantly filling her insides with concern. Grabbing Amrothos by his arm, she asked: "Has something happened to them?"

"No, not at all. It's just... well, they're not here. They left this morning", he answered at length.

"Left where?" Lothíriel asked. Her brow furrowed too, and inside her there was a kind of cold she didn't like at all.

Her brother sighed and looked troubled.

"This is not at all how I hoped to tell you everything, but... do you promise to stay calm?" he asked carefully, studying her face intently.

"Amrothos, where is our father and Éomer? What has happened? What is going on in this city?" Lothíriel asked, more forcibly now.

"To be honest, so many things have happened that I'm not even sure what I should tell you first. But maybe I should start with Father and your horselord..." he said slowly, as if talking to himself, and now she felt frustrated.

"Stop blithering nonsense, brother!" she insisted.

"All right, all right. Just don't go crazy or anything, will you?" Amrothos said quickly. Then he proceeded into a lengthy and slightly obscure explanation of how the decision had been made that the combined forces of Rohan and Gondor would ride for the Black Gate of Mordor and challenge the Enemy. That nearly had Lothíriel jumping out of bed again.

"What! How could they possibly decide something like that? They'll get killed!" she exclaimed, but once again Amrothos placed a comforting hand on her shoulder.

"I asked Father for the reason as well, but he said he couldn't answer my questions yet. He said it is meant to remain a secret for now, or something like that. But he insisted there was some very good motivation behind it all... he assured me there is a reason to be hopeful, and he promised to explain everything upon his return", he told her gently. "Of course they hated to go like that, not being able to tell goodbye to you properly... but they had little choice but to go. I'd have joined them, but obviously someone needed to stay here with you. It wouldn't have been right, to leave you here alone and guessing what precisely has taken place."

His explanation did not do much for her fear and concern that Father and Éomer had ridden to meet their fate and she'd not see them again... but then, Amrothos wouldn't lie to her, and so Father really must have had in mind something more than his two children could see. At face value the mere idea of confronting the Enemy at his very gate seemed insane. But if Father had said they could be hopeful?

Silently she digested this information and eventually sighed.

"How did I come to be here, then? How did that fight turn out, and was _he _all right? And anyway, just what was that talk about him being the king? One moment I'm thinking it's his uncle I'm going to have to convince that I know Éomer, and then those riders tell me that _Éomer King _has better things to do than listen to madwomen rave and rant. And then he comes running himself from that awful house!" she said then, remembering her complete astonishment when she had asked for the king and it had turned out _Éomer _was that king. She'd have asked about it right away, and how did he possess that position, but the bliss of reunion had made other topics more pressing and then Ocharnil had arrived with his men.

"Oh, your horselord was quite fine. He brought you here himself, and remained by your side until this morning... anyway, you should be happy to hear that Ocharnil is dead. He'll darken no one's life ever again, but I must say it looked like Father was really disappointed he didn't get to rough up the man himself. Between the two of us, I'd have loved to see _that _showdown", Amrothos explained, even smiling now. He continued, "I wasn't there to see any of it, but Éomer told us everything afterwards, and apparently entire two éoreds came to aid him and his men. I am told the Rohirrim thinking their king is threatened are a terrifying thing – a force of nature, really."

"After that it was really just a matter of cleaning up. The villain's men have been taken captive and I'm sure Faramir – who is on the mend, by the way – or Lord Aragorn will attend to them and give them what they deserve. We stayed here with you after one of Éomer's riders came to inform us that you are indeed alive. You've been out of it ever since, but the healers said you just needed rest", he finished. After a brief silence, he went on, "As for how he's the king now... well, I understand his cousin the Crown Prince died a little while ago. That made Éomer the heir of course, and then his uncle... King Théoden died during the battle before the walls of the city. So now your horselord is a Marshal no more, but a King. I bet you didn't expect that, did you?"

"Definitely not", she answered, shaking her head in astonishment. She had still hard time believing it. Éomer was king! Somehow, it didn't sound real. But she had seen the White Horse carried before him, and his men calling him king. But there was also a sting of loss at hearing what had come of Prince Théodred, whom she had deemed a great man.

"What of Ant? Was she hurt?" Lothíriel asked then. She was feeling a bit calmer now, at least. Still, it had to be said Amrothos' words had revealed lots of things she'd have to make further inquiries about, and Faramir and this strange Lord Aragorn were not least of them, but there would be time for exchanging stories once the most pressing things had been cleared out.

"She's perfectly well. Father has asked her to stay in our house. She's been making friends among the patients here – they seem to rather like her. She's been telling all these crazy stories to them", answered her brother. He frowned slightly then, "Speaking of stories, yesterday she explained us what you had told her. Is it really true, that Ocharnil had you captured and that he'd have used you as some pawn in his power game?"

"It's all true", Lothíriel answered, shuddering at the thought.

Amrothos scratched his chin and narrowed his eyes pensively.

"Hmm. Now I'm kind of jealous of Éomer, getting to handle that man. Anyway, there is obviously a lot here we need to talk about. I'll go and get one of those healers to take a look at you, and then we'll eat, and talk about everything. Is that fine by you?"

She settled back on the bed and tried not to think too much of the danger her father and Erchirion and her beloved King were now facing. Really, there wasn't anything to do now except wait.

"All right. We will do that."

* * *

The days after the Host of the West had marched from Minas Tirith were long and full of waiting. Over the city there was a tense quiet, different from the few past years of growing shadow. Not even the common folk returning did cause the kind of bustle one would have expected.

For Lothíriel and Amrothos those days were mostly very anxious. With Father and Erchirion away the house of Princes of Dol Amroth was somehow very silent, and even Ant's presence couldn't cheer up the atmosphere.

Much had befallen in the realm during Lothíriel's captivity. For one, Lord Denethor had died... he had even tried to take Faramir with him. Somehow it was difficult to believe what had happened. His stern steadiness had seemed eternal and so the word of his plunge into darkness seemed unbelievable. But Faramir lived and was now busy running things in the city. It was good to see he was doing well despite what had happened to Boromir. As the Steward his days were filled with all kinds of concerns, and so he didn't have much time to socialise with his two cousins.

And it was more than that, for a strange word was going about in the city: there was talk about the king returning, which Faramir confirmed as true. Altogether it seemed like many things were changing. Perhaps that was not just in Gondor... but in Rohan as well.

Ant at least seemed to be on hopeful mood. The first day the healers allowed Lothíriel out of bed she took the princess to a stroll through the garden in the Houses of Healing. Arms linked, they walked in the quiet calm under the trees.

"You know", said Ant after a bit of silence, "for someone who went through such a nightmare, I'd think maybe you'd be a bit more hopeful? Surely surviving _that _might help you believe that this another thing could turn out as well."

Lothíriel didn't answer right away. Instead, she mulled over Ant's words and her strange kind of logic as she gazed towards east where that ever-present shadow rested. Had the Host already reached their destination?

When she spoke, it was slowly and quietly.

"I'm just... I'm so tired of fighting. I'm tired of not knowing when I might see him again, and of people who keep falling between us. I'm tired of not knowing what will happen to him and me – and if I ever might be with him", she said, lowering her eyes. "Because so far, everything that has happened has just pushed him away from me."

"Maybe that's about to change. He's a king now, isn't he?" Ant commented. She glanced at the princess, "Not to mention this city still stands because of the Rohirrim. Gondor owes them our gratitude. Should be motivation enough for you father to reconsider the matter, don't you think?"

The pointed look on Ant's face made clear her meaning. Lothíriel gave her a weak smile.

"I didn't realise you'd have such a grasp on politics", she said, which made the older woman chuckle.

"Oh, I have a great grasp on many things, sweet lady", Ant answered lightly. "Be hopeful, will you?"

"And anyway", she continued then, "despite forces pushing you apart... hasn't he always come back to you after all? Surely you're not going to waste all that stubborn energy you've put into this? Would be a waste of good grit."

The princess couldn't but laugh at that, and she had to agree Ant had a point. They walked on in a companionable silence, and then Lothíriel gave a thoughtful glance at the one who had likely saved her life.

"I still wonder sometimes... about the way you helped me. _Us. _You didn't only get me to him, but also brought in your friends when we were in trouble. You had no obligation, no reason at all. And I was a practical stranger", she said softly, hoping this didn't somehow offend the woman beside her.

Ant didn't really smile, but there was a sad kind of fondness on her face.

"Well, I suppose it might seem a bit strange. It's just that you remind me so much of my little sister. The only family by blood I had, you see. She was a lot like you, though she wasn't quite as headstrong. Sometimes I look at you and think Gil would have had a chance too, if someone had just helped her", she said softly, shaking her head.

"What happened to her?" asked Lothíriel carefully. This was obviously a tender matter, but she had to know.

"She died", Ant answered, her voice harsh. When she spoke again there was a softer tone, however: "Life on the lower levels can be rough sometimes. Especially these years... you saw yourself how it was. The eyes of those could do something about it have been on things far greater, and so they haven't seen the tragedies of people like me. I don't blame them for it, I suppose. The war had to be fought, and we're alive now because of that. But it has also given rise to men like Ocharnil and his son..."

Ant sighed and shook her head. She looked down for a bit before continuing, "People like me, and my dear Gil... we don't have power or protection against men like them, not when we stand alone. Damn, apparently even a princess like yourself doesn't. That's what happened to Gil. And I'm done watching it happen again."

Now she stopped and looked straightly at Lothíriel.

"That is why I took you under my wing. And that's why I found my friends on the streets and asked them to help you. Your brothers needn't suffer what I went through with Gil", she said solemnly. But then a thin smile appeared on her face, "Not to mention we _do _owe our lives to the Rohirrim, and it would be very poor conduct to let their king die."

Hearing these words, the princess could but wrap her arms about the older woman's skinny form. She held on tight and felt the burning in her eyes, and mumbled, "I'm sorry about what happened to your sister."

"It's all right, sweetheart. Gil is in peace... and you're safe", Ant said softly. "You can't change what has happened in the end. One must do what one can, when there's still a chance."

She sighed then, "Speaking of which, I'm thinking of going back. To where I belong, that is."

That did take Lothíriel by surprise. With wide eyes, she looked at the woman she had become to consider a friend.

"You can't go now!" she argued quickly.

Ant's smile was gentle and comforting.

"Oh, I know how you feel. It's just getting more and more obvious that I don't quite belong here. And I like it down on the second level. That's what I know. This all" - she said, gesturing about herself - "is not really a place for someone like me."

"But you just said it's dangerous there", pointed out the younger woman.

"That I did. But now I see hope for us, and the people there... well, they need me. That's our kind of family, you see. And to be honest, I'm not really sure how to handle myself here. I know the streets, but I don't know this world where you live, and I can already see the people here giving me odd looks. Don't worry for me, sweet lady. I can take care of myself", she said, resting a hand on Lothíriel's shoulder.

The princess worried her lip, trying to come up with something to convince her friend to stay. But she knew and understood why Ant had to go. Lothíriel, if anyone, understood the feeling of not fitting. So she hugged the older woman again.

"You know that here's always a place for you, if you ever need anything? We owe you our gratitude. And once my father and Éomer come back, they will see that you are honoured according to what you did for us", she said, blinking back her tears.

Ant smiled.

"Of course", she answered and gave a gentle look to the princess, "I think you're going to be a fine queen, Lothíriel."

A small sob finally escaped from the young woman's lips, and she hugged tightly the one she owed her life to. The words came out muffled, but conveyed all the emotion and gratitude she felt.

"Thank you. Thank you!"

* * *

Amrothos had brought her some books from the library, and as the weather was nice that day Lothíriel had chosen to go outside and read there, if just to take her mind away from that constant worry at the back of her mind. The distraction did not work so well, though: she'd find her eyes regularly wandering towards east, and the book would lay open in her lap until she forced her attention back to it.

But now not even Steward Cirion's scribe's account on the Battle of Fields of Celebrant could not hold her attention for too long... and eventually her wandering eyes spotted the white figure standing not far from her.

The woman was very fair, with long golden hair that shined in sunlight. She was tall and slender and carried herself like a queen. There was something about her face that seemed familiar to Lothíriel, but she couldn't quite place the resemblance. And the woman's eyes were grey and cool as she studied the princess.

Lothíriel summoned a smile and met that gaze with what she hoped spoke of friendliness.

"Hello there. I don't think we have been introduced", she began and rose up from the bench she had sat on.

"I know who you are", said the woman bluntly. The expression in her cool eyes didn't shift... really, she didn't seem too happy a person.

"Have we met, then? I beg your pardon, but I don't remember -" Lothíriel started, but the woman before her didn't let her finish the sentence.

"I suppose I see why he loves you so", she said – it was difficult to say what was the colour of her voice, but the princess didn't detect much warmth at least.

"You're Éomer's sister", Lothíriel understood. Of course she should have known, if not from anything else then at least from those light and fair looks. The Lady Éowyn herself! Amrothos had told her of the deeds of this woman, and she had hoped to meet her, but the healers had said she wasn't receiving any guests and just barging in to introduce herself had seemed kind of wrong to the princess – she had also wondered if Éomer would like to be there to make the proper introductions himself. So she had waited for the right moment. That moment had now arrived, but it didn't feel too right to her at least.

"That I am. And you're the woman who has made him so miserable", Éowyn said, narrowing her eyes. It unsettled the princess, but she told herself she wasn't going to be decapitated.

"I've only ever wished for his happiness", Lothíriel said carefully, her smile turning forced now. "It was never my intention to cause him pain."

"Oh, that is easy for you to say. You didn't have to be there and watch how he nearly destroyed himself because of you. And you didn't have to bear the humiliation your father and the Steward served him", said the White Lady, her voice hard and unforgiving. Briefly her expression seemed almost like a sneer, "You must be pleased now that he's king."

The princess lowered her eyes and felt warmth on her cheeks, as though what had happened between her beloved and her kinsmen was somehow her doing. But she forced back that feeling and faced Éowyn's gaze again. This woman could very well be Éomer's sister, but she'd be damned if she let herself be blamed like this!

"So you think I wished for it? Enjoyed the way I had to send him away time and again? That I _wanted _my father and uncle to tell him those things?" she asked sharply. "For your information, I never cared whether he was the King or a Rider. I'd have chosen him anyway."

Éowyn did not answer right away. Silently, she watched the princess, as if she could somehow see inside Lothíriel's head. When she spoke, her voice was colourless.

"Perhaps you do love him in return just as well. And I know I won't be able to talk him out of this, even if it would be better for Rohan if he found the mother of his heir from among our own. He's going to make you his Queen, that much is obvious. But do not think I'm going to forget what it did to him – and how you nearly got him killed", said the White Lady, standing tall and proud. But her words only fuelled an angry fire inside the princess.

"I can see that you are brave and I'm not denying what you did is great. However, just because of what you did I'm not going to let you place this guilt on me. I'm not going to bear the blame for what that vile lord did. That is _wrong, _and Éomer would tell you the same if he were here", she said in a loud, hard voice. "And you may be his sister but after all this time I won't let anyone become between us again, not even you. _I'm not done fighting." _

Strangely enough, a faintest smile came to the face of Éowyn. Her posture relaxed somehow, and some of the coolness in her eyes subsided.

"Like I said, I see why he loves you", she said, slightly gentler this time. "And now I understand you're worthy of him. If he comes back alive... take care of my brother, Princess Lothíriel."

With that, she turned and went, and Lothíriel realised she had just passed a test... and unlike her father and uncle, Éowyn had been able to see through prejudices and the fear of unknown.

* * *

**A/N: **At last comes an update! I had some trouble figuring out the structure of this one, so it took a bit longer to write it, and also the real life has much interfered with my obsessive writing habits. Eventually I chose this road, and I hope you like it as well.

Few words on the events of this chapter. Éomer and Lothíriel both have survived, hopefully that resolution satisfies you too. A little more insight to Ant's motivations seemed necessary, and I figured that since Lothíriel is staying in the Houses of Healing she'd also come across Éowyn at some point. You could say their encounter is reminiscent of how Éomer met Imrahil and Denethor concerning the matter of marriage to Lothíriel, but Éowyn handles the matter a bit differently. However, she's not any less concerned whether Éomer's lady of interest is indeed worthy of her sibling. I actually think Éowyn's not completely fine with how things have turned out with her brother and Lothíriel, but in the end she also knows Éomer well enough to not try and stand in his way.

Also, Galdegir remains an open matter, but I promise we'll see his thread wrapped up as well.

So, it seems to me there's going to be one or two chapters more, and then I'll wrap up this party (that was supposed to be 5 chapters max, hah!). I'm now seeing how I could have extended everything far longer, but _House of Sun _and now _A Light that Endures _didn't agree. Maybe I'll rewrite this one at some point, who knows?

Anyway, hope you enjoyed this chapter. Thanks for reading and reviewing!

* * *

**Borys68 - **To be honest, I'm not sure I'm emotionally in a place I could comfortably write such an outcome.

**Talia119 - **What can I say? I'm a free spirit. These spears just come and go. :D Hope you liked this update!

**Sandy-wmd - **I'm glad to hear that! Wasn't sure how that'd be received, but I wanted to bring more of this contrast between the shadier folks - there's people like Ocharnil and then there's Ant and her friends, and they're not all the same.

**not paranoid enough - **I must say, I had way too much fun coming up with that. :D

**memory bleeds - **I just can't help myself and my love for cliffhangers. :) Hopefully this chapter makes up for it a little bit at least.

**Katia0203 - **Oh, Imrahil would probably have been furious. And I bet he and Éomer both are wishing they had had the full knowledge of Ocharnil's deeds before he was killed. Oh well, you can't always get what you want... but Galdegir remains yet, and perhaps he gets the punishment by law.

And yes, this story certainly did get out of hand! :)

**Mellon - **Sorry, couldn't help myself. :D

**annafan - **Well, I did want to include Ant's friends in that battle, to play more with that "corrupted city" angle. Perhaps Ant's words in this chapter open it up a bit more.

As for Éomer and his newly acclaimed crown, Lothíriel definitely didn't know upon stumbling upon his riders that he was the king. Hopefully her conversation in this chapter lightens it more, but if not: she was indeed thinking she'd find Théoden there, but when she insisted she must see the king one of Éomer's riders - possibly even Éothain himself - made it apparent that Éomer was the king actually. We don't get to see this because last chapter was from Éomer's pov, so he didn't hear the conversation. And as soon as Lothíriel realises he's actually there she doesn't really care about anything else than seeing him again, and all explanations as to how he's king have to wait.


	15. Chapter 15

_Beyond his hope she returned to him where he sat in darkness, and long ago in the Hidden Kingdom she laid her hand in his._

- Of Beren and Lúthien

* * *

**Chapter 15**

The air of morning smelled like the spring had come in just one night. In the garden, the flowers would soon be blooming... and back in Dol Amroth, she knew Cuileth was already bringing fresh flowers into the rooms, fussily arranging and rearranging them as she awaited news from the family members at this side of the realm. No doubt she and Elphir would soon come to Minas Tirith too, maybe even bring little Alphros with them. After all, she knew they'd never want to miss all the celebrations that would soon take place... and it wasn't like her attempts to get Lothíriel (and Amrothos, if possible) to the city by the sea had been very successful.

The horses were being readied in the courtyard of Father's house, and now it was only a matter of Amrothos showing up. He wasn't too fond of early mornings and she considered setting for the road without him. But then, he'd never let her hear the end of it.

Smiling to herself, Lothíriel looked towards east. Though it had already been few days and the rejoicing in the city had calmed a bit, she still felt curious warmth in her heart when she looked that way and saw no shadow. And the lack of that ever-present threat meant so many things that she could barely comprehend it.

_The war is over. _

What she did comprehend completely was that not only had her father and Erchirion survived, but so had Éomer as well. And in few short days time she'd see them in the Fields of Cormallen, where Father had asked her and Amrothos to travel.

Sighing in contentment, she lifted up her face and enjoyed the warmth of rising sun on her face. She felt light, hopeful... it was a strange sensation after these past few years.

"Good morning, cousin", came voice, and she turned to see Faramir entering the courtyard.

"Good morning to you as well", she said with a smile and he gave her a tight hug.

"I'm glad to see I got here before you left. Wouldn't want to see you gone without saying goodbye", he said when he pulled back. He cast a glance about, "Where is Amrothos?"

"Still getting ready. You know how he gets on mornings", Lothíriel said, offering her cousin a weak smile. He answered that with one of his own.

"Oh, I do", Faramir affirmed. He continued then, "You're probably interested to hear that I'm going to meet with that friend of yours – Ant was her name, wasn't it?"

This made Lothíriel smile. She had approached her cousin couple of days ago, and asked if there was anything he could do about how things were on the lower levels.

"I'm glad to hear that, Faramir", she said as a feeling of a kind of relief expanded inside her. Ant and her friends would be happy to know that at last their voices would be heard.

"Oh, it's nothing. I do agree something ought to be done about the situation down there. It's not right that we have allowed the city to fall into such ruin", Faramir said solemnly. "It's going to take a while before we can fix things, though. Now that Lord Aragorn is about to restore the heirs of Elendil, the matter belongs to him, and all I can do is just get information and prepare the case for him. But I promise you I will make it clear to him how important it is that we do not let this corruption spread or stay."

"Thank you, cousin", Lothíriel said gravely and hugged him again. It was good to know the state of things, the kind that had fed Ocharnil's power, was about to change... and she very much meant to observe this matter closely and make sure that Lord Aragorn took it to his heart. After all, she owed that much to Ant.

"It's the least I can do", Faramir said gently. He smiled then, "You know, a part of me is quite jealous that I can't come along."

"Only a part of you?" Lothíriel asked. "Wouldn't it be refreshing to get away from your many duties for a little bit?"

The smile on his face widened and a warm look was there in his eyes.

"Yes, only a part. I've found here in the city something I wouldn't want to leave behind, and finding it even makes my duties seem light", he said softly.

Her eyes widened in surprise when she realised just what he meant. Somehow, both her cousins had always seemed to have too many concerns to really find time for their hearts.

"Who is it? Do I know her?" she asked curiously.

"I'm not sure if you've met her. But you've certainly met her brother", Faramir said, his voice quieter this time.

It took a moment for the princess to process this information. When she had, she looked at her cousin in complete surprise.

"Lady Éowyn? Really? I wouldn't have thought she was... hmm, I'd have thought maybe you'd find someone here in Minas Tirith, if you wanted marriage", she said carefully when she had recovered her voice from astonishment. Faramir let out a helpless little laugh.

"Oh, I suppose it seems a bit odd. But then, perhaps it runs in the family, considering the two of us are hoping to marry into the same family", he jested lightly, patting her shoulder. When he spoke again, his tone turned more sober, "To be honest, I never wanted marriage. Not before I saw her."

"Does she return your feelings?" she asked gently, and even before he answered she knew the answer. The look on Faramir's face was all the response she needed.

"She does. It's hard to tell with Éowyn sometimes, but we... it's like a dream. She loves me, yes", he replied, his voice resonating such deep happiness she hadn't seen in him before.

"I must say I'm surprised. When I was in the Houses of Healing, she... she confronted me, about her brother. She didn't seem to like me too well", Lothíriel said gingerly. If Faramir was so taken with Éowyn, and was convinced she returned his feelings, then to her the matter was quite clear. Having battled this far in the matter of her own beloved she had no desire to make this harder for her cousin.

"I see", he murmured softly. Faramir considered her for a moment before speaking again, "Do you want to tell me what she said to you?"

"To be honest, I'd rather forget that conversation", Lothíriel answered uncomfortably. Her cousin nodded.

"Of course. Cousin, don't take her words too heavily. She's... she has recently been in a very bad place, and she's still healing. And Éomer is the only family she has left. So she may be protective of him, even if there's no reason", he spoke slowly, resting a gentle hand on her shoulder. "I suppose... I think it's also in part because of me. She needs to make sure her brother will be all right."

Considering his words, it made sense to her at least. And anyway, what Faramir said confirmed what she had thought to herself already. The slightly unpleasant encounter with the White Lady mostly stemmed from the woman's love for her brother.

"I'm not angry at her, so you may rest assured", Lothíriel told her cousin, and he smiled. He gave her another hug.

"Take care of yourselves, cousin. I look forward to your return. And bring my greetings to your father, will you?" he asked.

"That I will, if you promise to say hello to Ant for me in turn. You try and keep the city from falling into the ruin", she answered, smiling again widely.

"Wouldn't that be horrendous conduct, now that the King is about to return? But please, try and not wed that king of yours. The two of you owe everyone a proper Rohirric wedding", Faramir said lightly, which made her punch his shoulder.

"Hmph. You'll be seeing many proper Rohirric things before all is said and done, cousin!" she snorted... but evidently for him this was an entirely happy thought.

Amrothos came then, and after they had exchanged goodbyes with the Steward, they began for the road. It would take a few days for them to get there, but what awaited on the Fields of Cormallen was more than worth the wait.

And as they made their way down towards the road east, Lothíriel felt hope growing in her heart.

* * *

In the dream, the battle still went on.

There was such chaos and mayhem around Éomer, men dying in multitudes, and somehow everywhere he saw burning houses. He could see her even, hear her crying for his name... but to get to her he'd have to cut his way through half the army of Mordor.

And he knew she'd be long dead before he'd reach her.

The new King of Rohan woke up with a gasp, and instinctively he reached for the knife he had kept under his pillow; ever since the threat of Wormtongue had begun to grow he had not been able to sleep without a blade hidden somewhere close, from where he could quickly grab it. Now Wormtongue was gone, but the need to protect himself had stayed.

Yet there was no burning houses or battles in the quiet dim of his tent. From outside, he heard the noises of the camp slowly waking up. Almost a week had passed since the fall of Sauron, but somehow Éomer still felt like in the middle of a war. For one, restful sleep continued to escaped him.

It would take a while before he would get used to this new state of the world... but perhaps _she _would make it easier. And hopefully in time, he could even sleep without hiding weapons in the bed.

As it was morning already he decided to get up and leave behind yet another night of unease. He looked about in slight bemusement, as the grandeur of his environment didn't seem real. As a captain and a Marshal he was used to travelling light, and he had no qualms about camping under the stars... but now there was collapsible furniture and furs on the ground and his armour rested on a stand in the corner; it almost felt like he was in a real house.

Rubbing his forehead, Éomer felt his racing heart calm down at last. This all felt so absurd. What was he doing here even? _I never wanted to be the king... _

It was simple and beautiful and he could see it all: serving Théodred King, being Marshal like his father before him, and Lothíriel... his wife, the mother of his children.

However, if he had learned something it was that his life had a way of making itself complicated and taking twists and turns he never saw coming. And perhaps it had always been the throne he had needed to get _here – _to get to a place where he had a chance of marriage with his dear princess.

He sighed and decided that was enough of brooding for the morning, and he got up to find some clothes. Perhaps Aragorn would be up to sharing the breakfast...

The smell of morning was fresh when he stepped out of the tent. His guards were sitting by the doorway of it, and Éothain was there too chattering away. Sometimes Éomer suspected the man didn't need sleep at all but ran completely on willpower.

"Good morning, Sire", greeted the men. There was that damned word again – would a day ever come that it wouldn't seem out of place?

"Morning, fellows. Anything new?" he asked, though he didn't really expect to hear anything too special. Aside from some marauding survivors from the Morannon, the woods were mostly quiet.

"Nothing really. The night was quiet – just couple of laddies brawling, but that's been taken care of", answered Éothain as he rose up on his feet. As they made their way forward couple of guards followed, which felt silly, even if Éomer understood the idea behind it.

"You had another nightmare", noted the captain in a quiet voice so that only his king heard him.

"How can you tell?" Éomer asked reluctantly. He briefly entertained the idea that not only was Éothain unconcerned by basic needs like sleeping, but he also read minds. Perhaps he was an elf... no, the man was far too bearded for that.

The captain smiled good-humouredly.

"King of mine, I have known you long enough to have learned that your face is an open book", he answered.

The younger man chose but to grunt as an answer. The captain was far too observant for his own good.

"Anything you want me to do?" Éothain asked, his tone more serious now.

"I appreciate the concern, but these demons I need to battle on my own", Éomer answered evenly, not turning to look at his friend. "Maybe all they need is some peace and quiet." _And Lothíriel. _

"Peace and quiet for you, old warhorse?" said the older man in light tones. As the young king glanced at him he could see a jesting glint in the blue eyes of his friend. He snorted.

"Better start learning sooner than later. I'm not sure Imrahil would appreciate a half-mad husband for his daughter", he said dryly. Éothain chuckled.

"Just half-mad? I could say a thing or two about that", he snickered.

"But because you're my friend, you won't", Éomer shot back. They had arrived to Aragorn's tent, and the man himself stood outside as well, enjoying the growing light of early morning.

"Hello, friends. Care to join for some breakfast?" he asked.

"You go ahead, Sire", Éothain said with a smile, and the two kings made their way inside the tent. As they sat down, Aragorn looked at his friend quizzically, "Imrahil is going to join us in a moment. I hope you don't mind?"

"Of course not", answered the Rohir and gave his friend what he hoped was a reassuring smile.

Even if he _had _minded Éomer knew he wouldn't have been able to afford that kind of animosity. And anyway, he did not wish to feed any ill feelings between the two of them now. Not only would it be bad concerning Lothíriel... but he had also deemed this was as good time as any to put behind all past disagreements. Not to mention they had been getting along rather well ever since the incident back in Mundburg. That Éomer had himself brought Lothíriel to the safety seemed to have much improved Imrahil's attitude towards him.

The Prince of Dol Amroth did indeed arrive then, and after greeting the two kings he sat down, and for a while they ate in silence.

"Messengers came from Minas Tirith late last night. Imrahil, your son and daughter are on their way as you requested. They'll be joining us here in a couple of days", Aragorn said after a while, and his words instantly brought a bright smile on the Prince's face. The man truly did love his children. And in all honesty, Éomer's heart made a strange little leap at these news as well.

"And Éowyn? Will she come too?" asked the young king quickly. He had asked his sister to join the company in Cormallen, as she should be now well enough to travel.

"She said she wouldn't come. I am assuming she's not feeling strong enough", answered Aragorn gently, but his words still made Éomer frown. His friend reached for his arm and gave him a gentle pat. He spoke softly, "I'm sure she's not in any danger. It could be she just needs more rest."

The Rohir nodded, though he didn't still feel quite untroubled. He knew his sister was in good hands, but the despair she had fallen in continued to worry him. Who knew what it might cause her to do?

He couldn't ponder on that longer, for Aragorn spoke again, "I also had word of a man called Lord Galdegir. He was son to the man who attacked you on the second level, yes?"

"Aye. What of him?" Éomer asked. The mere mention of Ocharnil's son made his hands squeeze into fists.

"It looks like he's going to survive after all. He has lost his leg, but otherwise he's going to be fine", Aragorn said.

"Hmm. I can't decide if that is good or bad news", commented the King of Rohan darkly.

"I agree", Imrahil put in. "But perhaps it is for the better if at least one of them faces the justice. Not to mention he might have information on his father's activities – which should help us root out the corruption in the city."

"Yes. Let us hope he'll be so co-operative as to help us out in that. Still, I intend to deal with him myself once we return to the city. Considering what he has done, and all the times he escaped justice, he does need a strong retribution", Aragorn said, stroking his chin thoughtfully. He frowned then, "I understand Lord Ocharnil was a fairly powerful man, even on the light side of the law. It is obvious his son can't succeed him now. Does the man have any other heir?"

"He has a nephew – young Lord Olthor, the son of his sister. I used to know her when we were young... a fine woman, really. I never realised what kind of a man her brother was", Imrahil answered and shook his head.

"Do you think the two knew or participated in Ocharnil's foul schemes?" Aragorn inquired. The Prince thought of the question for a while, staring off to distance. Eventually he shook his head.

"No. Not really. Lord Olthor's father was a good man – great, even. Not perhaps so powerful as some, but I would not mark him down as the kind to take part in what Ocharnil did... and I'd believe he'd have raised his son to uphold same morals as he did. Same goes for Lady Saeriel. I should say we must at least give Olthor a chance of salvaging his house", Imrahil judged.

Éomer had listened to this conversation quietly. The two men seemed to fall into this collaboration most naturally, which promised good things for times to come as far as he could see. He just hoped it would become as easy with him and Imrahil... but then, he wasn't sure which one of them should make the first move of trying to amend what had happened between them during his past visits.

Shaking away these thoughts, he put in, "Perhaps Lord Olthor could also help you to mend the damage done on the lower levels of the city. I believe I owe it to them to speak in their behalf, after the aid they gave not only to me but to Princess Lothíriel as well. If you help the small folk and see them lifted from the ruin they have fallen into... then perhaps that could also help to prevent new Ocharnils from rising."

His fellow king nodded and gave him a smile.

"That is quite correct. I would have my people lead secure and prosperous lives", he agreed. "And considering what aid they gave to you, Éomer, I too would see them rewarded."

Aragorn was silent for a while, and when he continued his voice was grave and determined, "I see there are many things for me to fix and rebuild and heal. It's not just the White City, but the soul of our people as well. This corruption needs to be wiped out... and I would see men judged by their deeds, no matter how high they are. We can't have any more Galdegirs parading around, doing what they will and getting away with it because of their status."

He gave a serious look to the two men then and went on, "In this, I will need the help of you both. I fear it is not something I can change over night. But if I know I have your support... then, my friends, there is nothing we can't achieve together."

"You can always count on me, Aragorn my brother. Say the word, and Rohan will answer", Éomer replied.

"And Dol Amroth also stands behind you. I knew it when I first saw you, and every word you speak convinces me more. You are Gondor's new hope and future", Imrahil added solemnly. Aragorn smiled and for an instance it seemed like there was something relieved in his eyes; he might be fated for things greater than any of his forefathers since Isildur's time could have dreamt of, but that didn't make it any easier.

"I am thankful, to the both of you. I must say knowing you stand with me I feel relieved", he said softly, looking at the two men around the table. But then the look in his eyes became more stark, and he asked: "I know the two of you don't have the most pleasant history, and perhaps it is wrong of me to bring up those matters again. However, I would like to know if your disagreements are past and you can work together. For if we are to rebuild our kingdoms, then I must rest assured that no animosity remains between you."

The King of Rohan turned his eyes towards the Prince of Dol Amroth, wondering if he should speak first or give turn to Imrahil. The older man made the decision for the both of them and spoke up in careful tones.

"For my part, I can promise that past is and will remain past. I admit that I made some wrong and unjust judgements, and for them I am sorry. For Rohan and her King I have now but respect and friendship, if the Lord of the Mark will accept it", said the Prince, searching the face of the young king. Éomer could not see any lingering hostility there, and what remained of his doubts disappeared.

"And I do accept it. I wish no more trouble between myself and the Prince", he said. His words brought a smile on the face of Aragorn, and he reached over the table to squeeze both their hands.

"I'm glad to hear that, my friends. With this new day old grudges should be left in the past... and together we will build a new and better world for our peoples."

* * *

The night had already fallen when at last the escort reached the camp on the Fields of Cormallen. Though it was late they had decided to ride to the end; it wouldn't have made much sense to settle down for night when the destination was so near. And anyway it was much safer in the camp of the Host of the West.

"And I know at least three fellows there dying to see you. We shouldn't keep them waiting", Amrothos had told his sister with a grin. Lothíriel had very much agreed with her brother, and so they had went on.

The camp was already settling down for the night, though here and there men sat by fires, laughing and jesting, and a light mood reigned over them.

But Lothíriel's eyes sought only for three things: her father, Erchirion, and Éomer. She knew their tents were deeper into the camp and probably they were sitting the evening together with their friends, but still she couldn't help but reach her neck and try to see those familiar faces she had so missed.

"Calm down, sister. We're going to see them soon", Amrothos promised.

"Shut up, brother. I panic if I want", she answered, fidgeting the reins of her steed in her hands. They had sent a rider before them, to inform their father that his children had arrived. But there was no sight of Father yet, and one frantic moment Lothíriel even wondered if something had happened to him.

Then at last she saw him: he was half-running towards them and Erchirion came just after, and with a delighted cry she dismounted. She flew towards their father and he grabbed her into a tight hug. Only his trembling revealed the tears he would not let fall.

"Oh, my dear daughter! How good it is to see you!" Father exclaimed. "And you, Amrothos! I hope you left the city in one piece when you left!"

"What do you think, Father? Faramir is probably still trying to put down all the fires these two have ignited in our absence", grinned Erchirion.

"You know us well, brother", Amrothos answered as he dismounted. He was grinning as well.

Father grumbled but hugged his youngest son nevertheless, and there was a beaming smile on his face. He looked at his daughter again, "I'm happy to see you up and about, dear child. I was very concerned about you."

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to cause such worry", Lothíriel said, but he just embraced her again.

"Oh, I know that. And the important thing is you have survived and the one responsible for it has been dealt with. Tell me, have you healed well? Should I ask for Aragorn to take a look at you?" Father asked, but she gave him a gentle smile.

"Stop fussing, Father. I'm completely fine", she told him firmly. She looked about, "Is everything well here? I was... is he..."

She couldn't continue that sentence, though. Knowing of the troubled feelings her father had for the man she was hoping to see Lothíriel suddenly regretted bringing him up so soon after her arrival.

However, there was not the slightest annoyance on the face of the Prince. Instead, a weak smile touched his features.

"Don't worry about him. He is hale as ever. His captain just seemed to think the man was in the need of some proper rest, and the healer fixed him something to make him sleep", Father said softly.

"What? You had him drugged?!" Lothíriel nearly shrieked.

"It's not like that, sister. Please, don't murder anyone – the war is over, and we don't need you starting another one", Erchirion put in.

"Oh, I will definitely start a war if he is harmed!" she snapped and glared at her father and brother.

"Calm down, dear daughter", Father said, his tone turning gentler. "He's fine – just catching some rest he hasn't been able to have since the war ended. I think he has been waiting for you."

"Hmph. He better be all right or I'm going to be very unpleasant company for a long time", she said, but still gave another hug to her brother Erchirion and then Father. Looking up at his face, she spoke more gently, "Do you think... would it be all right if I went to see him? I've missed him a lot."

Father's expression turned softer as well, and in the depths of his eyes there was something resigned. Tenderly he kissed her forehead and she knew it was fine.

"Go ahead, daughter", he said, his voice quiet and gentle.

Lothíriel gave him a brilliant smile and held him tight. She whispered, "Thank you, Father."

"You're welcome", he murmured. She gave a kiss to his cheek and saw the glistening of tears in Father's eyes, though his smile was encouraging. Then Erchirion placed a hand on his shoulder, and Lothíriel pulled back.

"We'll talk later, yes?" she asked, at which Father nodded.

"That we'll do. I'd still like to hear the full story of what happened to you in captivity. Now, go on. I know you're anxious to see your horselord", he said gently. The princess couldn't but flash a smile at her father, and then she hurried along. Now, when she was so close to seeing Éomer again, it felt like years had gone by since she had last seen him.

Finding his tent wasn't too difficult. It was towards the centre of the camp and had an abundance of fair-haired Rohirrim about it. Some of their faces she recognised from the encounter in Minas Tirith, when she had found Éomer at the burned ruins of Galdegir's house.

As she approached, few of them turned to look at her quizzically. Lothíriel gave them a bright smile.

"I'm here to see the King. Will you let me through this time, or do I have to scream my head off again for him?" she asked, which brought out some chuckles from the men.

One fellow however, a bit shorter and stouter than the rest, didn't seem too impressed. He said, "Who are you, and what business do you have with the Lord of the Mark?"

But then his peer reached for the man's arm.

"It's fine, Fyren. She's his lady. The Princess Lothíriel", said the Rider. Instantly more eyes turned towards her, and she could very well see curiosity grow in those gazes. Some mutterings in Rohirric rose, and she couldn't but wonder the meaning behind those looks and the words she didn't understand. And if they already knew her name... apparently the relationship between herself and the King was already a well-established knowledge.

"Go ahead, Lady", said the guard who had spoken up for her and she smiled at him. Lothíriel decided it was for the better not to mull too much over what these men were thinking, and so she stepped in.

The tent was illuminated by the soft, gentle light of some candles, and she walked through towards the back, where the sleeping area was divided from the rest of the tent by a curtain hanging from the ceiling structure. And there, behind it, she found him again.

He was fast asleep on the bed, so deep in dreams that he never even moved when Lothíriel approached him. Remembering how tired he had seemed back in Minas Tirith she thought if it would be better to let him to have this rest... even if she ached to wake him up and hear his voice.

Quietly, she sat down beside him on the bed. It felt slightly odd, to sit there like Éomer must have sat beside her when she had been injured. But perhaps he too needed healing, the kind was that which only sleep could bring... and relaxed in dreams, he seemed unburdened in a way she had never seen him.

"Oh, my dear horselord..." she said softly as she gently ran her fingers over his cheek. Then tears came to her eyes, for now she realised it the way she had not before: _It is over. _

The war was finished, and Éomer had made it through, and Father... he'd have to reconsider. _There was hope. _And they, she and this golden-haired man, could have all that they had dreamt of in the dimness of the stables of the Citadel.

Perhaps... perhaps the next time she'd send him on his way would be with more than just uncertainty and a vague wish that he might one day return.

The next time, it would be with a promise.

* * *

His sleep was blissfully dreamless that night, and when the new day dawned Éomer felt rested and also somehow more peaceful. His mood had remained troubled during the past few days, even if there was no real reason to be troubled now that war was ended.

Upon drifting towards awakeness he also came aware of soft voices in the other part of the tent. One of those voices he recognised as Éothain's, but what drew his attention was the female one... and he knew only of two women who had any business being in his tent.

"... I'll just check on him. Maybe he'll wake up soon?" said that voice, and then as he shot up from the bed she was there on the curtain serving as a door. For a moment, he was certain he was still asleep or his groggy eyes were making him see things. _She had come. _

Seeing him awake and on his feet, Lothíriel let out a delighted squeal, and then she jumped on him – which deed quickly reassured him she really was there. And he caught her and was distantly aware of tears on his cheeks: Lothíriel was here, she was all right, and the way she was kissing his face seemed to imply it had been years since their last encounter.

His legs gave in under him and he fell on the edge of bed, but she didn't stop with the kisses. Somewhere at the background Éothain was chuckling: _"I take it he's awake. Let us give them a moment."_

But Éomer was thinking of needing more than just a moment – _no amount of time would ever be enough – _and it demanded a some serious effort of willpower to not just ravish her senseless right there.

"You're all right? Tell me you're all right", he rasped.

"I am. I'm fine", she reassured him, breathing heavily. Her eyes looked feverish and very bright, and that was exactly how he felt too. Holding on tight to her, he groaned.

"You gave me quite a scare. Don't you ever do anything like that again", he uttered. _I thought I'd lost you._

"I've got you now, don't I?" Lothíriel murmured.

"Aye", he agreed and kissed her. A long moment went by like that and almost turned into something more, but eventually he was able to remind himself of reality. For one, he didn't even want to think of what Prince Imrahil might have done and said had the man walked in on them right now.

So he pulled back and looked at her: flushed and her lips swollen, and her hair a tangled mess from the treatment of his hands... but she was there, and she was alive.

"I love you", he whispered. His voice almost broke down and she let out a noise like a sob.

"I love you too", she answered. For a moment, they remained like that, each catching their breath and trying to get their emotions under control again.

Eventually a slightly hysterical grin came to Lothíriel's face as she pulled back a bit. She said, "You know, I _did _stab him like I promised to you."

Éomer could but let out a laugh that mixed with a snort.

"You are completely nonsensical, woman", he informed her.

"And that's why you love me, isn't it?" she asked as a calmer expression settled on her face.

"It is one of the reasons, aye", he agreed and gave her one more little kiss. Then he forced away thoughts that included her and the bed and tried to grasp on some steadiness of mind. "We should probably get out of here – I'd like to talk to your father. Or I'm not going to be responsible for what happens."

"Oh, yes", Lothíriel said. But then, as she tried to rise up from his lap, she found herself still imprisoned there. With a faint smile, she asked: "Mind letting go of me?"

"I do mind, but as I'd rather not be flogged by your father, I will do that", he said. She chortled and got up at last.

It took a while for them to get themselves presentable again, though Lothíriel looked a bit like she might burst into giggles any moment. And there wasn't really much to be done about that reddish kind of rash about her mouth, caused by his beard. Well, if her father had allowed her here, then perhaps he'd be also willing to look past the signs of an enthusiastic reunion.

But before they exited the tent, Éomer stopped her and gave her a solemn look.

"I'd still like to hear of what happened to you when you were captured. Mistress Ant told us what you had explained to her, but I wish to hear your own version", he said, resting a hand on her shoulder. A sudden, wild fear came to him and he wondered if she had only given Ant a clean version... if there was some ill things he'd yet to hear about.

However, Lothíriel's gentle smile consoled him a little bit.

"Of course I'll tell you everything. Don't look so grim, dear one... I'm fine. They didn't really have time to do anything too bad to me", she reassured him.

"Still. I regret not making that accursed man suffer more. He'd have deserved a fate far worse than death for laying a hand on you", he grumbled, but Lothíriel interrupted his dark thoughts with a kiss.

"He is past. And he's not worth our while. I made it through it... the important thing is that we're here now", she said gently and he had to agree.

"I still wonder that you _did. _It was a trial that could have claimed your life", he said. Unpleasant shiver ran through him, but her touch chased it away.

"Well, I promised to you that I would endure", Lothíriel simply said.

"And I'm glad that you did", Éomer murmured softly and placed a kiss on her forehead. Then, offering her his hand, he smiled, "Ready to face your father?"

"Yes, dear one", she said and answered his smile brightly. "Don't worry. I'll protect you from him."

"You'd better", he told her, and they ventured out.

* * *

After a short rest in her father's tent Lothíriel had gone again to see her dear King around sunrise. With Éothain and Amrothos they had awaited for Éomer to wake up: the Captain had insisted they let him sleep as long as he liked. It was quite obvious Éothain had great affection and concern for his king, which she could very much appreciate.

The reunion had been just as blissful as she had expected, and during it the day had grown into a full morning.

Outside the camp had already awakened, and sun had risen. Morning's light painted the Field of Cormallen in gold, and the glory of spring was about them. Somehow only now did she take note of beauty around her... all was light and her heart was hopeful. It was a strange sensation after these years of uncertainty and doubt. She turned to look at the man by her side, and he smiled at her; she could see similar thoughts moved in his mind.

They never made it as far as her father's tent. He was outside, talking with her brothers... and the sight of the King of Rohan approaching with Lothíriel by his side instantly distracted him from the conversation. When Father looked at the pair of them his expression became sober, and for a while he stood there with Erchirion and Amrothos, both of whom had fallen silent too.

A quick look about confirmed that they were not the only witnesses to this scene. Those up and about had stopped their chores as well, to observe what was about to take place here. Suddenly, Lothíriel felt fear clutching at her heart. What if Father would say no? Surely he wouldn't do that after all this time?

But then the hand holding her own gave her a gentle squeeze, and she looked up to see a reassuring smile on the face of her dear horselord. It encouraged her and she was able to answer him with a smile as well.

And Father came quietly, his eyes betraying how difficult this was for him. Yet in his movements there was no sign of hesitation.

He stopped before the two of them at last but said nothing at first; instead, he searched the eyes of his daughter like he was looking for some answer in there. He gave a glance to the King of Rohan as well, and the two lovers stood silent waiting for him to speak. Imrahil turned again towards his daughter and let out a soft sight.

"Daughter", he said at last, picking up her hand in his. He considered it momentarily before continuing, "These past couple years, I've watched you keep up an odd battle: I've seen you wasting away, yet you have refused to give up your fight, and... it is time for me to acknowledge that no one does so unless a great love drives them. I admit that I have judged you wrongly – both of you."

The Prince then turned his eyes towards the young king.

"Words can't really hold my embarrassment and disappointment in myself, my lord. Usually I take myself for a man of clear sight, but I suppose Lothíriel has always been my blind spot... and I did not give you all the courtesy and respect you deserved not only as a comrade in arms but also a kinsman of the late King Théoden and a lord in your own right. For the offences and humiliation I have given you, I am truly sorry. I hope you may one day forgive me", he spoke softly, his voice resonating with regret. Quickly, Lothíriel glanced at the tall Rohir beside herself, and she saw a friendly look on his features.

"It is forgotten, Prince Imrahil", he simply spoke, and his words brought relief to the face of her father.

"Thank you. It is good to hear that you bear no ill will, even if you would be entitled to it, my lord..." said Father. He sighed and shook his head, and for an instance he looked down.

But then he looked up again and fixed his eyes on Lothíriel's face.

"This truly is what you want, daughter?" he asked in a quiet voice. She met his gaze steadily.

"With all my heart, Father", she answered, her voice gentle but firm.

Father let out a breath that could not quite hide its heaviness. He turned his eyes towards the King of Rohan. A moment of silence passed between them, and to Lothíriel it seemed like more took place there than she could understand. Eventually, Father spoke again.

"I expect you to take good care of my daughter, and love her like the treasure that she is", he said, breaking the silence.

"Prince Imrahil, you can trust that I will cherish Lothíriel for all the days of our life", Éomer answered solemnly. Blinking tears from his eyes, Father smiled.

So he held her hand for one instance more, and then placed it in Éomer's, at last giving his blessing. And she looked at the man beside her and saw her bliss mirrored on his face, saw the tears of happiness glistening in his eyes... and at last she threw herself in his arms and he received her like a man who has awaited to hold his beloved for a hundred years.

Then she couldn't hold herself back anymore, and though they were under the eyes of all these men great and mighty, Lothíriel did not hesitate when she kissed her beloved king. There was a kind of exhilaration to this show of love between the two of them, for she remembered the time this was but a secret in their hearts, and then a forbidden passion that would have earned them the fury of their families... but they had endured, they had faced the pain of unwilling partings and the distance between them and the opposition of others, and now that endurance was at last rewarded.

* * *

That night, there was a great celebration in the Fields of Cormallen. In many ways these lands had been hallowed, and much laughter had been heard here... but now at last another kind of blessing was laid there, and that was the happiness of lovers united. Music was in the air, as was the fragrance of spring and new life, and the faces held abandon and joy that had been gone for what seemed like an Age.

And Lothíriel, daughter of Imrahil, sat beside King Éomer of Rohan, and in her hair she had flowers. It was agreed nothing held such radiance as her that night, and the man beside her was one that bore happiness on his brow; and those who remembered him from earlier years wondered, for Éomund's son was not known as someone whose eyes held much light.

As he sat there beside her and looked at her, he felt he could do anything. All the world seemed full of promise now, and nothing scared Éomer: he'd figure out how to be a good king, he'd rebuild his realm... he'd see Éowyn smile again, and he'd see a new day dawn in this world.

Most importantly, he'd see the woman he had called Nightingale by his side... his queen.

This knowledge, so sweet and unbelievable, had him then falling silent, and just looking at her. She was laughing at something her brother Amrothos had said, and she was... she was so beautiful. There was no other word for it.

Then he felt eyes on him and looked about, and saw Imrahil watching them. The Prince sat some seats away and regarded the two in silence. The look on his face was thoughtful and bittersweet; Éomer understood what it meant. _Imrahil was letting go. _

He gave a smile then to the young king and lifted his cup of wine. Éomer answered the gesture and let out a small breath he hadn't noticed he was holding. Having Imrahil's consent was probably something that would take a while to truly sink in.

Then Lothíriel turned towards him and all other thoughts left his mind. So he picked up her hand and gave a kiss to the back of her hand, and she smiled. It was good to see her so happy.

"Would you like to sneak out for a bit?" she asked quietly, and her words instantly brought a grin on his face.

"That would be a pleasure, dear one", he told her. She answered his grin and looked much like she'd like to kiss him – perhaps that was just what she intended once they were alone.

"See you out in a moment?" she asked, at which he could but nod. Lothíriel grinned at him, kissed his temple, and then fluttered away like a slightly insane butterfly. He stared after her in a manner not any more clear-headed, until the sniggering of Éothain and Amrothos distracted him. He passed their amusement with a snort and a roll of his eyes. Then he too made way towards the doorway.

He found Lothíriel outside the pavilion, and smiling she took his hand in her own. There was great laughter and merriment in the camp, and all were occupied in the celebration... so, sneaking away wasn't too difficult for them.

Just outside the camp it was quiet and calm, though the noises and the light carried even here; they did not venture far, because even after the war the security of these woods was not yet a matter of fact. Even then, it was pleasant, and they slowly walked hand in hand.

"Do you think we can marry soon?" she asked softly when they were at last in their own peace and privacy.

"It may take a while", he said after considering her question silently. "I still have to negotiate the details with your father, and I'd have the rebuilding of Rohan started before our wedding. When you come to the Mark to be my queen, I'd rather give you more than just a war-ravaged land."

"You know it never was for me about what you can give", she told him firmly. "Throne or no throne, I want you. And I'd be of more help if I was there with you. It's not going to be easy, mending all the wounds this war has left... I should be there to support you."

The thought was attractive one, he had to agree to that. But Éomer had a feeling Imrahil would probably be of like mind with him, and he had no wish at all to put off the man now that he had finally given his consent.

"I always wish for your presence, but... Lothíriel, I will have to be a king for a while. Get everything on the mend, and accustom my people to the idea of you as their Queen. They're probably hoping I'd choose my bride from among the Rohirrim, and it is possible that this engagement doesn't come as such a pleasant surprise – even if it means that there will be an heir in the kingdom some time soon", he spoke slowly, watching her face closely. A frown came to her face and she looked more troubled than he'd have expected. Éomer's brow furrowed too, "Is something wrong?"

"It's just... when I was still in the Houses of Healing, I met your sister. She didn't seem to like me too much. She was very protective of you. And she also said that she'd rather see you picking your wife from among their own", Lothíriel mumbled awkwardly. This seemed to cause her genuine distress. Quietly she continued, "She said I'd made you miserable."

That brought him a sting of annoyance, and had Éowyn been here now he might have expressed his opinion very sharply. But then he reminded himself of what his sister had gone through... and thinking of it, he knew she'd not do such a thing without a good reason.

Then he understood. Just as Imrahil and Denethor had been measuring him, so had Éowyn measured Lothíriel. She had simply been testing the character of the one he meant to make his wife.

"You shouldn't let her words get to you, dear one", he said gently and stopped to look at his princess. She seemed still uncertain and he leant down to give her a calming kiss. "Lothíriel, she was probably just trying to see what kind of a woman is going to be the Queen of Rohan. If I should guess, she wanted to see if you could handle a bit of heat."

He gave her another kiss and rested his hands on her neck, "Don't worry about what my people will think of you. Perhaps they will be bewildered at first, but when they see how very dear you are to me... they will love you, Lothíriel. I promise."

Then he pulled her close and breathed in the scent of her hair, loving the way she melted against him. Softly, he went on, "And don't you ever blame yourself for whatever misery there has been. For the love of you I'd endure anything. What has happened is past and now we have a future."

Pulling back so that he could see her face, he saw the softening in her eyes and what doubt and troubled feelings she had seemed to disappear.

"It is strange, isn't it?" she asked in quiet voice. She reached up and brushed a lock of hair from his face, and her fingertips caressed his cheek. "We are going to be together. I can hardly believe it. After all the times we have had to say goodbye without knowing if there is a reunion waiting for us..."

"Aye", he agreed. He kissed her gently, slowly, and then spoke: "And when I first lay eyes on you in the stables I dared not believe your father would one day place your hand in mine."

She wound her arms about his waist, holding on tight to him. In her eyes, there was great light. How happy she looked, and free and unburdened... had he ever seen her that way before? _This was how she ought to be. _And he'd do everything in his power to see her so every day for the rest of their lives.

"And now I will hold on forever", she told him softly.

"Forever is a long time", Éomer said, resting his forehead against hers.

Lothíriel smiled.

"But perhaps not long enough", she murmured, and then kissed her beloved King.

_Perhaps not... but for now, it would do. _

* * *

So fell night in the Field of Cormallen, and the Moon's silver light blessed the union of the Horselord and his Nightingale. Soon would come a day of return to the White City, and from there matters would proceed on their own weight. Future would come, and many things with it: rebuilding, mending wounds in the land and the people, new wars.

But for this night the King of Rohan and the Princess of Dol Amroth wandered in the forest sorrowless... and there, in the love of each other, their wild hearts knew at last peace.

**THE END.**

* * *

**A/N: **And so comes to an end this story. I did consider writing at least two chapters more, but eventually I decided against it. For one, I want this piece wrapped up so that I can concentrate on _A Light that Endures... _though if I know myself at all, something will soon be distracting me again.

Here I hopefully tied up what threads there remained. If all was not answered then please inform me: sometimes I get blind to my text so I might not remember explain everything adequately.

Anyway, I wanted to see the hostilities between Éomer and Imrahil buried for good. Both of them know it would cause nothing good, and with the war ended this is a chance as good as any to just start over and forget the past differeces. Also I hope the scene between them and Aragorn satisfies your curiosity as far as Galdegir goes. I decided to spare him, but only so that he could face the justice he deserves. I can tell you that Imrahil made very sure Galdegir would never again be able to exercise such unlawfulness, though sometimes he probably regretted not getting to handle the villain himself.

As for Éowyn, she was indeed slightly hostile towards Lothíriel in the last chapter, but most of it stemmed - like Éomer believes - from wanting to test the character of one woman who is going to be the Queen of Rohan. Lothíriel understands this too, and I believe their next meeting was more friendly. Well, tey have to get along, considering they're going to be sisters-in-law. And ultimately, I don't think either of them could hate anyone who loves Éomer like they do.

Also Aragorn indeed got to the business of restoring Minas Tirith, which meant better livelihood and prospects for Ant and her folk. The life on the streets had forged bonds between them that lasted even over the more peaceful years, and Lothíriel probably remains friends with Ant for the rest of their lives. I have a feeling every time she visits Minas Tirith she always makes time for seeing Ant... and Éomer too would begin to consider her a friend. I even have this image in my head that he has somehow upset Lothíriel, and so goes to Ant for advice as to how to appease to his wife. That could make for a hilarious oneshot!

I hope you, my dear readers, have enjoyed this piece. I thank you all for reading and reviewing, and see you in the next chapter of _A Light that Endures! _

* * *

**Borys68 - **Oh, I didn't think it was stupid! It's completely okay to speculate and have different ideas than myself. :)

**Mellon - **Hopefully this chapter clears out her attitude at least.

**Talia119 - **Sadly, no such thing here. And anyway, Éowyn had her own reason to say those things. She was just looking out for her brother.

**Sandy-wmd - **Yes, for her it never was a problem if he was a king or a rider.

**Kiiimberly - **Indeed, she does have a point for why she speaks so - it's not just her being nasty for the sake of it.

**Wondereye - **Éothain, I think, just wants what's best for Éomer. And I think he rather likes Lothíriel.

**annafan - **He has to, sooner or later. And it's not like he can really ignore Éomer's proposal now that the man is king.

**La Pleiade - **Hopefully the conversation between Imrahil, Aragorn and Éomer answers to that question! He's going to be face the justice properly, and I wouldn't say that promises anything good for him. And yes, the improvement of the city is close not only to Lothíriel's heart, but Aragorn and Faramir are invested in it too. Plus the matter has Éomer's full support as well - he's probably going to find out if there's anything similar going on in Rohan once he gets home. Altogether things are on the mend!


End file.
